


The Time That We Love Best

by Nehszriah



Series: The Time That We Love Best [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1940s AU, 1950s AU, Babyfic, F/F, F/M, Gen, Kidfic, WWII AU, human!doctor AU, lots of mentions and cameos from other characters, will add more tags as time goes on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 100
Words: 206,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4898563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clydebank, Scotland, 1940. John Smith is just trying to get through the war while making himself useful, trading in his paintbrushes for a rivet gun. After a bad day at work, he meets a young English girl at the pub who reads him a bit too well and lingers on his mind a bit too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January 1940

**Author's Note:**

> I've already finished posting this story over on ff.net, but since I started here on AO3 so close to completing the story that I decided to wait until all was said and done to begin posting here. That being said, since it would take into next year to finish at one chapter a day, I will post five a day to keep the updates manageable and contents steady. In order to keep spoilers from those whom haven't read, I will add character/other tags as time progresses. When the time comes in the fic to where it won't be spoilers, I will also start posting prompt fills in a separate story.
> 
> This took over a year of not only my life, but the life of my buddy/editor Kat's as well, so here's hoping you, dear reader, enjoy our efforts.

_Roamin' in the gloamin' on the bonnie banks o' Clyde_  
_Roamin' in the gloamin' with my lassie by my side_  
_When the sun has gone to rest_  
_That's the time that we love best_  
_Ach, it's lovely roamin' in the gloamin'_

-Sir Harry Lauder, 1911

* * *

Chapter One

It was January 1940. After coming off another twelve-hour shift, John Smith trudged his way up to the bar and ordered a pint. He hadn't even bothered going home to change out of the overalls and jumper and heavy boots he wore to work first—after a mismatched day where nothing seemed to go right, he just needed to sit down and relax. At the pub there were no new kids to train, no riggings to snap on him, no rivet guns to malfunction, no things to drop three stories and spill oil all over the shipyard floor… now it was just him and a pint and nobody else to harp on him. He took his beer with him and sat down at a table towards the back of the establishment, away from the dance floor and most of the other patrons. The past few months had seen his regular joint turn from the same people he saw day in and day out near his entire life to burgeoning nearly to the point of capacity as people from all over the United Kingdom had come to work in the shipbuilding yards. It was hectic, but everyone was so enthusiastic that it made it all worth it.

John scowled at the crowd as he drank his beer. Sure he could have gone over and chatted with his old mates in the one corner or gone to see what some of the young blokes he worked with at the yard were up to, but he was not feeling it. The past three months working long, hard hours was wearing him down quicker than the previous three years. He was aging faster, he noticed, with his face growing more drawn and grey starting to appear in his hair. Well he _had_ turned forty-eight not that long ago, but it was just jarring when looking at a photo from January last year to find his face not nearly as angular and his hair not yet beginning to sprinkle with signs of age.

Finishing off his beer, John took the glass up to the bar and ordered another. He brought it back, only to find that his table had been occupied—two of the local lads that worked with him in the shipyard and a young woman he had never seen before with brown hair and eyes and possessing the most petite frame he could imagine. John paused before sitting down in the empty chair next to the young woman.

"Oh, was this your table?" one of the young men asked. The smirk on his face told John he was there to pick a fight, but could be diffused by age and wisdom.

"How observant," the older man sniped.

"So then you were here with her?" the other asked.

"No…" John replied.

"Then what are _you_ doing here?" the first asked the woman. "You're English, but you're not one of the migrants at the factories and I've never seen you around so you _had_ to have moved here recently. What is your game?"

"That's enough; if you're going to be too forward from the get-go, at least be nice about it," John growled. This was not the day to cross him and risk him slipping into a more caustic attitude than necessary. He turned to the woman and frowned, his voice no less harsh than when lecturing the boys. "I do apologize for the lads, Miss. They're a bit rough, but that's how we Scotsmen tend to come."

"It's alright—boys will be arrogant little buggers until they stop being boys and just become arrogant buggers," the woman said with a smile and a straight face. The two young men grumbled and left, as they both realized there was not only more work in ruffling her feathers than they planned on, but they'd have to deal with one of their gruffer coworkers as well.

"My… aren't you the one with her feet on the ground," John chuckled. He took a sip of his beer and looked at the woman… no, she was almost a child herself. She couldn't have been no older than twenty-one or twenty-two, with her lipstick a bright red to match her dress. "They do have a point though: you don't exactly make sense here. You know, if you don't want the attention it's better to just get a bottle of whiskey from the shop and drink it at home."

"Can't," the woman replied flatly.

"What, you can't buy a bottle of whiskey?"

"I hate whiskey."

"And yet you moved to Scotland. Would it be rude of me to ask when you first came to grace our little slice of the River Clyde, or would you rather just drink and forget about outside for a while?"

"Drink, please," she grumbled. Her accent was very northern English, which did explain how come the boys chose to single out her. She took a drink of her beer and shuddered, clearly not used to the taste. "They should do the women of Clydebank a favor and go enlist."

"They're on reserve," John explained. "Most of the men in here either didn't make the first cut or are ineligible. Some are even barred from enlisting because they're too valuable in their trade."

"Which are you? Tell me," the girl asked, her turn to be forward. John shrugged.

"Too old. I don't look like this just because of the yards wearing me down."

"They turned away a shipbuilder because he's too old? What, did you miss the cut-off by a year?"

"No, they turned away an artist who was three years shy of fifty who instead helps the war effort by building ships alongside women and boys and crippled old men… not that there's anything wrong with women or boys or crippled old men, but it still does a number to you when you know you still have it in you but no one will give you a chance." He looked at the girl, who seemed to be studying him carefully. "So what about you Miss…?"

"Oh, sorry. Oswald. Clara Oswald. I just came up here from London a couple days ago with my kids. We're waiting to get them sorted to country boarding houses and foster care."

John had heard about the mass exodus from London that was starting to take place, planned to eventually move hundreds of thousands of mothers and children out of London and away from potential Luftwaffe raids. Did a group come in town recently? Maybe they were beginning to run out of space in the English countryside and decided to reinvade Scotland with mothers and babes. Maybe the women took turns watching each other's children for the night, so that they can all rest. Whatever was the matter, John knew he had no place to mock her for that.

"I see. That's very brave of you, dear," John said respectfully. From the looks of her, she probably had a baby waiting for her at her place… maybe even a child just young enough to stay home from school yet. The young woman sighed and took a deep drink of her beer.

"Thank you," she replied. "It's going to be hell trying to keep all those kids in line while trying to find homes for them. _I_ actually have to find them. Can you believe that? Twenty-five homes for these kids and they're already starting to not listen to me…"

"Pardon…?" John was confused; twenty- _five_?!

"Yes. I'm a schoolteacher," Clara said. She looked at John's baffled face and laughed. "What? Did you think I came up here with kids of my own? I'm not even dating anyone, let alone married with kids!"

The tips of John's ears turned red, partly from embarrassment and partly out of the day's exhaustion catching up to him. "I'm sorry, Miss Oswald. Most of the ladies I work with are mothers, even the young ones, so I tend to assume…"

"No, that's fine," Clara smiled. "I'm actually flattered you think I'm mature enough to be a mum. Everyone else tells me I'm just too flippant and boss around other people's children like a meddling old maid in the making."

"Oh, there's time for you yet," John chuckled. He gave her an encouraging smile and finished off his beer. "You're not flippant; you're good at being in charge."

"How would you know? We just met."

"You handle a large number of school children and are escorting them far from their home and yours in a time of crisis. I wouldn't call that a bad thing."

"Thank you… um…"

"John. You can call me John."

"Thank you John," Clara smiled. She looked over her shoulder, over towards where the crowd became concentrated on the lacquered hardwood in front of a small brass band, and back at John. "Would you care to dance? I think I've got time for one go before I have to get back to the kids."

"How could I refuse?" John stood up and held out his hand, Clara laughing at the formality and taking it as she rose to her feet. They walked over to the dance floor and waited for the song to end. During the pause, they edged their way in and slowly danced as the brassy tune kicked back up.

Licking his lips nervously, John looked at the woman in his arms. She barely came up to his chin and that was _with_ heeled shoes. He unconsciously began to pull her in closer, to which she drew away a little.

"Now, now, none of that," Clara scolded. "I asked for a dance, not for my door to be beaten down by an angry wife in a few hours."

"I'd like to know how that would happen, considering I'm not married," John said. "Never have."

Clara looked up at him quizzically. "Really?"

"I might've married, if the Great War didn't shuffle my life around for four straight years. After that I just didn't really pursue it. Wasn't a high priority, if you can infer the sentiment."

"You served then, and still want to serve now?"

"I'm old, Miss Oswald. I've lived life and I know what it takes to be a soldier. I'd rather our young men be the ones dancing while on reserve."

"No; you just want adventure."

Those words hit John oddly as they slowly spun in place. How could she figure something like that? For being such a difficult a person to read she was tapping buttons that weren't exactly correct, but not _in_ correct either. He blinked at her.

"Adventure…?"

"Yes. Excitement, thrills, adventures… all those things."

"…and how can you tell?"

"You're dancing with me, and I wasn't even alive during the Great War. I'd say that's adventure enough for a Tommy."

"That sure would be," John admitted, "but I'm not sure I would call going off to war an adventure. Maybe one day a long time ago, when I was your age, but not now."

Clara raised her eyebrows and tried to reword her statement. "You're right—maybe ' _adventure_ ' isn't the proper word for the situation. It's a bit callous now that I think about it. Probably more like… a purpose."

John looked down at this woman, this girl, this stranger with her perfectly foreign accent and dark brown eyes and a scent that was a mixture of the liquor and smoke of the pub with a swarthy cologne, and pondered. She was hitting the buttons more precisely now—a big, red button with white lettering that screeched loudly as it was pressed. _Purpose_. He bent down and lowered his voice so that he could whisper in her ear.

"…well, I guess I am."

John stopped dancing and straightened his posture as the song ended. He bent down again, slightly this time, and kissed the back of Clara's hand.

"Thank you, Miss Oswald, for the dance."

"Please John, call me Clara."

"Okay Clara. See you around?"

"Definitely."


	2. Two Weeks Later

Out of all the places to see her, he imagined, the last of which involved him being at work in the shipyard. He was suspended high up near the top of the ship, tethered to the structure by a long length of rope. The riveting of the two plates was almost complete when the younger of his two coworkers pointed out the cluster of children headed by a teacher-looking figure.

"Hey, I wonder who let them in," Collette said, much too pensive for her normal bubbly self. John looked under his shoulder and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled—there was Clara, the young English woman he had danced with at the pub, leading a gaggle of small children. Will, the foreman, was with them and looked like he was giving a tour that conveniently had a stop no more than a football pitch's width away.

"It's like none of them have ever seen the yards before," chuckled Verity, another riveter. She was the direct opposite of Collette—smug and with enough years of mothering on her to have it as her default state.

"They might not have," John said. "Those kids are from London."

"London…? How do you know that?" Collette asked. John tried to shrug casually, but it came off as a twitch.

"Oh, I talked with their teacher in the pub a while back; that's her down there," he said. He paused for a moment before he moved over to the truss the equipment had been brought up on. After hanging his rivet gun and bucket on their storage hooks, John began to mess with the rope on his harness.

"John, what are you doing?" Verity asked.

"I'm going down to talk to the teacher for a moment. I'll be right back."

Verity gave John a disapproving glare as he descended down to the yard floor and unhitched his harness. After taking a deep breath to settle his stomach, he began the brisk walk over to Clara. She was standing a few yards away from her group of students as they all were clustered around Will as he demonstrated how to weld.

"Uh… hi there," John coughed, trying to sound casual. Clara looked over her shoulder and smiled when she saw who it was.

"Oh, hello," she said cheerily. "How's it? Been a while."

"Yeah… it has, um… hasn't it?"

There was a pause of silence between them, which filled instantly with sounds of metal on metal and people shouting amongst themselves and the _clank-clank-clank-clank_ of machinery. They looked at one another awkwardly, aware of the many eyes that were able to spy on them at that very moment.

Clara was the one that broke the silence. "So… what have you been up to lately?" John twitched slightly, turning the motion into a nervous laugh.

"Oh, not much. I haven't seen you down at the pub."

"I've… been busy. You know, with the kids."

' _Of course_ ,' John thought silently. He tried to not stare at Clara, his eyes flicking from her hair to the collar of her dress and even the lipstick she wore that was a slightly different shade of red from the last time they spoke. ' _She's probably all sorts of busy in a place she doesn't know and with other people's children to look after._ '

"Oh… if that's the case…" he started. John looked at the ground in defeat, trying not to bite his lip.

"No, I didn't mean it like that!" Clara replied. John looked back at Clara and blinked. "I mean, it's been nothing but the kids and the boarding house day in and day out and at this point my head's spinning."

"W-well then, would you be interested in getting a drink later on?" John asked. "After I get off work, of course, which is six…? Yeah, six. Does six work?"

"Six-thirty; gives you time to actually walk over to I assume the pub we met at."

"Oh… oh, yeah, that's right. So six-thirty?"

Clara gave a small smile in return. "Yeah." She was about to continue when she heard a small shriek—looking over her shoulder they saw that Will had the welding mask on one of the kids, who seemed to have a poor hold on the flame and was pointing it every which direction. Clara sighed. "Now if you excuse me, I have to relieve the foreman of my children. See you then, John."

"Bye, Clara."

John walked back to the rope and reattached his harness, allowing himself to rappel back up to where his coworkers were at. Verity and Collette looked over at him, the former frowning.

"What…?" John asked defensively. Collette just giggled, while Verity's look became critical.

"Stop with that stupid grin," Verity said. "It's creepy."

"I'm what…?" John asked. He suddenly became very conscious of his face; he _was_ grinning. He flashed his teeth, making Verity cringe. There was a funny feeling, down in the pit of his stomach, but it felt rather… well… exciting.

He really did not want the feeling to end.

* * *

John walked into the pub and looked around, attempting to spot Clara. He found her in the back corner with a basket of chips and two pints in front of her.

"Ah, there you are. Thought you might be hungry," she said, motioning towards the food. John sat down and shoved a handful of chips in his mouth.

"I needed this," he said as soon he washed the chips down with some beer. "We ran over shift today, so forgive my appearance."

"You still look like you stuck your head under a faucet in the loo," Clara chuckled.

"That's because I did." John shrugged and popped two chips in his mouth. "So what if I work in a shipyard? I still want to look nice."

"But you're an artist—you said so yourself," Clara said. "What's an artist doing building warships? I understand it's to help the war effort, but aren't you better drawing propaganda or being a desk clerk somewhere?"

"I grew up around the trade, so I took what I could and what I could take at my age and experience level was a riveter's job," John replied. He took another sip of his beer and looked out at the other pub patrons. "They all thought I was daft for going to art school."

"My friends all thought I was a nutter for signing up to come here," Clara smirked. "I told them that someone has to be here to receive the children as they try to make it to safety, someone who was sure to know what London was like. It's just a rest until they get out to the country, but they need all the support they can get. Now here I am, on a first date where I share chips and a pint with a sweaty riveter who claims to be an _artist_."

"I am too an artist," John snapped back, careful to add a touch of playfulness to his voice.

"Then what did you do? Paint portraits?"

"There's more to Scottish art than portraiture, dear." He paused and put his pint down. "You know, this is actually our second date."

"First meetings count as first dates in Scotland?"

"Sure they do—we got in a dance, didn't we? Since that's the case, if you're still in such disbelief about my well-worked talents I propose we go take a look at my artwork," John smirked. He stopped himself, realizing that he was leaning in towards Clara and grinning probably a bit too toothily for what was appropriate. ' _Simmer down, before you blow it_.' John leaned back and coughed into his fist, trying to act calmer. "That is, if you want to go look at my work we can. The only issue is that it's all at my house and I don't want to be a creep. It's up to you—second date or not I'm not going to trick you into coming home with me."

Clara sat in thought for a while before answering. "I guess it's alright. Where else can we go? My boarding house? The landlady would be scandalized."

"Then let's go," John said, knocking back the rest of his beer and leaving some money on the table for the bill. Clara quickly finished off her pint and they walked out, leaving the dancing and music behind them.

Walking along, John made small talk by explaining some of the local history to Clara as they went. He had lived in Clydebank for most of his life, making his memory of the place long and full of stories. Soon they were walking down a residential street that seemed oddly still in the early twilight.

"This is where you live?" Clara asked, looking around at the stonework houses.

"Yes. My granny's granddad built many of these houses during the first stages of the Clearances for those migrating to the cities. This was all farm back then, and was actually its own village proper if I recall correctly. Clydebank didn't even exist at the time."

"Did he build your house?"

"I live in his house." John turned and opened the front gate of a neatly-kept garden, which surrounded a home that looked conveniently sturdier than the rest of the street. He held the door for Clara, his chest tightening in nervousness as she entered.

Looking around, Clara marveled at all the paintings that hung on the walls and sat propped up along furniture in the front sitting room. Navigating the room yielded a plethora of pieces for Clara to rummage through. Some had frames, some were plain canvas; there were landscapes and portraits and animals and all sorts of interesting subjects for her to look at. They did not seem to be very well-organized and just sat wherever they pleased, telling her the homeowner was not used to entertaining.

"You did all of these?" she asked.

"Most of them," John said, drawing the drapes before turning on the lights. "Some came with the house; Granddad fancied himself a collector of fine art when most of what he bought was rubbish."

"So then you're a painter by trade?" Clara asked while flipping through some canvases. John pulled a thin book off a shelf and held it out towards her.

"Mostly in my twenties and early thirties. Up until recently I did this sort of work." Clara took the book from his hand and her eyes went wide at the cover.

"This is yours? You're the John Smith that illustrated ' _Handy Hank of Hannover'_? This is one of the books I have my schoolchildren read!"

"Wrote and illustrated. I've done… oh gosh, I don't know how many of these books. Occasionally I get a stipend from royalties, but for the most part I don't see much of it anymore unless I turn in something new."

"…and you haven't had time lately, have you?" Clara asked. John shook his head and sat down on the sofa, stretching out and popping the sore vertebrae in his neck.

"The money I'm making now is at least steady," he admitted. "Before, thanks to rewrites and scrapped panels, I could go months without a payday. It wasn't exactly stressless and I've had my fair share of porridge weeks."

"…but it's what you love, isn't it?" Clara asked. She sat down and curled up into John's side as she flipped through the brightly-colored pages, so concentrated on what was in the book that she did not register John's flinching reaction to her presence. "I don't know much about art, but I can usually tell when an artist loves something he's done. You love these books, don't you?"

"They're different worlds that I control and can visit whenever I want," John admitted. He slid down the couch cushion, putting space between him and Clara. "If I didn't love that, I'd be a fool."

Clara put the book down on the coffee table and tucked her legs up underneath her. She looked at John, who was staring back with all the nervousness of someone about to be walked in on. She winced apologetically before leaning back into the couch, putting her hand down on the empty bit of cushion. After a moment, John cautiously put his hand next to hers, their fingers lightly grazing.

"John?"

"Yes Clara?" She took and moved her hand so it gently rested on his. He didn't flinch, which she took as a sign to continue.

"Can I be rude for a moment?"

"…I guess so."

"Why children's books? An unmarried, childless man writing and illustrating children's books seems a little odd when you think about it."

"Not to me," John said. "I figure that at least my stories and other worlds will never go to waste as long as I put them down for other people to read to their children. It's not a bad life, giving them what they don't have the time to create. Lots of people work incredibly hard, harder than I ever have, and knowing they don't have to think about something as simple as ' _Handy Hank of Hannover_ ' or ' _Silly Sarah's Circus_ ' or any of those other things… it makes me feel like I've helped them."

Clara paused for a moment. "You never wanted more?"

"Yes, but… it's a long story."

"Doors at the boarding house lock at midnight; I think I've got time."

* * *

After talking long past when evening had turned to night, Clara realized it was starting to get late. John insisted on walking her back to her boarding house due to how incredibly late it was. He was the one, after all, that had been keeping her out all night with war stories and tales of hobnobbing around the Glasgow art scene back in her toddler years. Clara surprised him by linking their arms together as they walked through the town. He didn't have the heart to tell her, but the last woman he walked arm-in-arm with was his late mother.

They meandered along until they finally reached the large Victorian house Clara rented a room in. John accompanied her all the way to the door. "I guess this is as far as I'm allowed," he chuckled, shifting awkwardly on the porch. He bent down nearer to her eye level and kissed the back of Clara's hand. "Thank you for the evening. I hope this old man didn't bore you too much."

"No, actually, I enjoyed tonight." Clara leaned forward and crept up on her toes, landing a quick kiss on John's cheek. She hesitated, waiting for some sort of response to size up. In a single motion, John turned his head and left a peck on Clara's cheek before he straightened his back.

"Good night, Clara," John smiled. His eyes were full of shock, turning his expression into one that would have been considered twisted on any other occasion. "We should do this again."

"That'd be nice. Good night, John." Clara watched him as he stepped off the porch and walked towards the pavement. He turned around momentarily, to shove his hands in his pockets and toss her an awkward winking grin-farewell. She slid inside the house, only to be met with the stern glare from the house matron.

"I thought you said you had a date with one of the young men from the shipyards?" the matron asked.

"I said _a_ man from the shipyards. We just sat around and talked mostly, had tea. He tells the loveliest stories."

The matron frowned at her critically. "I don't know _what_ John Smith wants with you, but you watch out. I am not going to have any scandalous boarders in my house."

"Don't worry, ma'am; I know how to behave myself," Clara replied. She masked her annoyance with a smile—she was not a child and knew exactly which lines she could cross and which she couldn't. She _had_ pushed it a little far at first, but luckily she had backed down and neither of them had advanced further afterwards. John was not a quick London fling who knew he was there as long as both of them were interested; this was a man who would likely have far more repercussions to face when dating anyone, let alone an outsider. She began to walk up the stairs to her room but stopped halfway and looked at the matron locking the door. "Do you know him?"

"Yes," the matron nodded. "Two years under me in school, he was. So different from everyone else."

"How so?"

"Those stories you say he's good with—they started when he was a kid. Such an imagination on that one… it's borderline unnatural, like there's a whole bunch of him in that brain of his. You're a cheap thrill to him, something to satisfy all the other hims he thinks he is. He may be working in the shipyards, but he's not suited for the work—it'll age him too much and turn him into an old man before your eyes and then what will you have? A broken old pervert who still thinks he has the stay of a twenty-five year old. That's besides the fact I thought he caught some sort of way of living while at that art school that failed to include the fairer sex for the longest time."

"Mmm… that's not the impression I got…" Clara mused, mentally glossing over the harshness of the woman before her who was still, when all was said and done, her landlady. "How long did you think that?"

"From the time he came back home from the War until about five minutes ago," the matron frowned. "Now get upstairs; lights out in half an hour."

"Yes, ma'am." Clara finished climbing the stairs and crept through the hallway to her room so as not to wake anyone else. She quickly changed into her nightdress and hung up her skirt and blouse to be used again another day. Her bed felt comfortable and warm as she climbed in and nestled down. With the house dark and quiet, Clara looked up at the ceiling and, despite the warm duvet, had a shiver go down her spine.

John really was lovely and charming, despite warnings of how rough and abrasive Scottish men were, and she didn't feel as if he was in this for the cheap sort of thrill. In fact, she felt fluttery and light-headed and… what was the word… euphoric.

"Oh no…" she groaned quietly, drawing the duvet over her head in embarrassment.

' _I can't… I only just met him… I have so much to do for the kids yet… I don't have time for this_ …'

Little did she know that a couple blocks away John had stopped walking in his tracks, hands still jammed in his pockets and gaze focused straight ahead. His eyes grew wide and his cheeks burned as he slowly sank down on a nearby bench and brought his hands up to hide his face.

' _All you did was talk to her… you were boring… you work too much… you can't…_ '


	3. Early February 1940

The school bell rang, causing the children to jump up and rush out the classroom door. Clara looked out the window as they spilled into the yard and started to play; it was going to be a rough twelve hours ahead. She had watch duty that night, meaning she had to stay with the kids as they camped out in the classroom. Most of them would be going to country homes soon enough but ' _soon enough_ ' did not mean ' _headed on the train that night_ ' and they still needed supervision. It was just a good thing that the spare classroom she had been given contained a small office as well, giving her bit of privacy for the long hours ahead.

Going over a stack of papers she needed to file in the office, Clara walked out into the hall only made it a few paces before colliding with a tall figure. She looked up and jumped back; it was John, his eyebrows knit in concern. His wet hair said he was freshly showered but his clothes smelled heavily of sweet wood and earthy ink.

"Are you okay, Clara?" he asked.

"Oh! John! I, uh, didn't see you there…" Clara stammered. She could feel the blood rushing to her face as some of the other teachers watched them in the corner of her eye.

"I could tell," John chuckled. He smirked as he brushed some hair back from her face, smoothing it out carefully. Something lurched in Clara's stomach, nervousness perhaps, and it took her a second to finally speak again.

"Shouldn't you be at work…?"

"We've got the rest of the day off and are on shortened hours tomorrow," John said. He brought his hand away from her face and let it fall to his side. "We're ahead of schedule and, well, if we keep on making things early then when we need the proper amount of weeks they won't budget that in to our time allowance. I was thinking, maybe, if you were available tonight…"

"I'm sorry, I can't," Clara said sadly. "It's my turn to stay with the children tonight. They sleep here, since they're not all placed yet."

"What do you do when they're asleep?"

Clara looked at John with a raised eyebrow—his tone seemed innocent enough. "I write letters soliciting shelter for them. Sometimes I read or mark coursework."

"Then can I come back just to sit…?" John asked, his voice low. His eyes temporarily flicked over towards the other teachers at the end of the hall, sure that they were watching his every move. "I'll keep quiet and draw and make you tea. You _do_ like tea, right?" He raised his eyebrows as he stressed the question, allowing Clara to pause and mull the offer over.

"I love tea, but it better be a proper cuppa," Clara warned. "Lights are off at eight-thirty and they're usually asleep by nine. I'll let you in the front door."

"Okay; see you then," John smiled. He hummed happily to himself as he walked through the hallway, not so much as taking notice of Clara's confused coworkers as he went. Clara simply shook her head and groaned—the kids had better fall asleep early that night.

* * *

Some hours later, Clara stood by the front door of the school with her arms folded and foot tapping impatiently. It was nearly nine o'clock, which meant John was nearly late. She was about head back inside to lock the door when a strange movement in the distance caught her attention. It was a lithe figure running up to the school with a messenger bag flung over its shoulder...no, wait, that really wasn't running. It was more like… well, she wasn't too terribly sure what that motion was, but it was faster than a walk despite being very upright. As the figure approached, she was finally able to make out that it was...John. Of course.

"There you are," she frowned. "I can't stay out all night waiting for you."

"I know, I know… I just got stopped by my neighbor and she's so nosy she should be a spy in the Reich," John explained as Clara let him in the school. She locked the door back up and began to lead him up the stairs back to her classroom. "I brought tea, like you asked, in a flask, along with some old biscuits I hadn't opened yet and…"

"Shh…" Clara hushed John as they arrived at the classroom door. He quieted and followed silently as Clara crept back through the room.

Twenty or so children, about seven or eight years old, lay in various piles around the room's main space, currently cleared of desks and chairs. A couple desks and a blanket in the corner had been transformed into a fort, where tiny whispers could be heard. Clara led John to her small, windowless office, which was just large enough for her own desk and chair, along with a couple cupboards and a tattered three-person couch. She left the door open a crack and switched on her lamp.

"Well, it's not much, but at least we don't have to worry about Mrs. Hendricks lording over us," Clara whispered. John put down his bag and began to rummage through it. He pulled out a thermal flask of tea, along with a biscuit tin and a cloth bundle, which he put on the corner of the desk.

"I hope you like corned beef," John said, cracking a small smile. He looked at the papers on the desk and tilted his head. "I thought you only had twenty-five kids with you."

"Oh, you mean my list?" Clara asked, holding up a sheet of paper. On it was a handwritten record of names about forty long, all of which possessing an address in London and some with an additional Scottish address. John nodded in affirmation and allowed Clara to continue. "I get sent more children when I place some in homes. As long as they're in a city they're in danger, but here they're at least away from the capitol where the Nazis could easily flatten us in an attempt to destroy our government, commerce, and culture in one fell swoop. The children's stay here is only temporary anyways, so they don't mind much."

"Well then, I'll let you get to your work," John said. He took a small sketchbook, some pencils, and a metal container out of his bag and settled into the couch. Clara looked at him, slightly confused.

"You didn't want to sit up and talk…?"

"If you have important work to do, then don't let me stop you." John took a pair of spectacles out of the metal container and put them on, looking over them to smile at Clara. "Can't have the wee ones wake up and think Miss Oswald is being naughty with some granddad she picked up in a pub. Just being here is enough for me."

"Okay…" Clara said. "A perk of dating in the over-forty set?"

"Definitely a perk."

Chuckling, Clara took a stale biscuit from the tin and sat down to work on her letters. A few hours passed, along with a few trips to the teacher's lounge to make more tea, soothing a homesick child, a couple visits to the lavatory (with and without a sleepy-headed child in-tow), and the polishing off of John's sandwiches. It was past midnight, creeping closer to one, when John let out a large yawn.

"Oh, wow, it's past my bedtime," he groaned as he stood and tried to stretch the sleep from his limbs. After letting his limbs relax, John began to clean up his things. "Thank you for having me; it was different than sitting at home or in the pub."

"You can't go yet," Clara smirked, rolling her chair in front of the door. "Show me what you drew first, please. I want to see."

John's ears, already reddish from exhaustion, went full-on magenta as he hesitated, the hand with his sketchbook hovering over his bag. He passed Clara the small book, unable to look her in the eyes. The first few pages were filled with dockside scenes or sketches of coworkers as they built the large metal ships at the yard but they soon gave way to scribbles involving things around the office, her included.

Actually, there were more than a few sketches of her; writing letters, filing, getting things from the cupboards… even when the nightmare-plagued student had come in sniffling about wanting her gran. Some were merely suggestions of a figure caught in movement, yet others were meticulous and detailed. The detailed ones were mostly of her sitting in her chair, or standing in one place, the most precise drawing involving her lounging back in her chair with her teacup balanced between her hands and her mouth open as if talking. Clara closed the book and handed it back with a smile.

"They're nice," she said. "I see someone in there I recognize." The redness migrated to John's face as he jammed his sketchbook in his messenger bag.

"I'm sorry, it's just that when I…" John began. He stopped himself and looked at Clara, softly illuminated by the desk lamp and looking up at him with her coy, playful eyes. They hadn't even known one another for a month and words jammed in the back of his throat before they even reached his mouth. He wanted to admit to, to declare, to _confess_ to all the bits that were setting his chest alight and making his head light. "When I find a muse, I…" Clara stopped him by standing up and pulling his shoulder down so that she could arch on her toes and kiss him on the cheek.

"Don't worry," she said quietly. "They're nice."

John stared at her, it becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe as his throat dried out. Eventually, he forced himself to choke out an "Are you free on Sunday?"

"What time Sunday?"

"Just Sunday, all day. I want to show you Glasgow. Don't listen to what anyone else down south says—it's a very pretty city."

"Meet here then?"

"Seven o'clock; there's a bus not fifteen minutes later."

"Deal," Clara smiled. John finished packing up his things and kissed the back of Clara's hand. He left silently, awkwardly hopping over sleeping children as he made his way towards the door. With a wave and a grin of his own, he was gone.

"Miss Oswald…? Who was that…?" a tiny voice yawned. Clara looked and saw one of the girls shuffling up towards her, rubbing her eyes blearily.

"That was just a friend of mine," Clara said. "He wanted to keep me company, since I have to stay up to watch over you. Now go back to sleep."

"Oh… okay…" the girl nodded. She drug her feet along as she went back to her mat and curled up underneath her blanket.


	4. 11 February 1940

Clara turned the corner and smiled as she saw John standing by the gate to the school, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in an effort to stay warm. He was looking up at the dark, cloudy sky with his teeth chattering in the morning cold. Careful not to catch his attention too early, Clara snuck up behind John and threw her arms around him in a playful hug. John jerked and recoiled in legitimate surprise.

"Morning!" Clara announced cheerily. John did not hug her back, instead trying to curl up with his back hunched and upper arms drawn in tightly against his sides. Clara let go and saw that he was grimacing uncomfortably. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," John lied. He straightened and smoothed out the front of his coat. "It's, well, you took me by surprise is all."

"You didn't look surprised," Clara said, arching her eyebrows.

"I haven't had anyone really hug me in a while." John looked at Clara and tried to gauge her reaction, which was so far confused.

"No one hugs you…? Not even mates or anything?"

"Actually, one of my coworkers, Collette, she's about your age and she hugged me her first day on the job but she hugged everyone her first day. Other than that… no, not really… not for a long time, anyways."

"Oh…" Clara said, her voice trailing off guiltily. "Is it okay though? _Can_ I hug you?"

"I'm not really a hugging person," John shrugged. He saw the concern on Clara's face and added "but if that's what you want… I can try." He held out his arm and Clara took it, pressing herself into John's side to combat the chill.

They walked like that to the bus stop and only separated when boarding one-by-one. The vehicle was mostly empty; early on a Sunday was not the prime time for heading into the city. This allowed them the whole back of the bus to themselves, which helped John's face go not quite as red when Clara pulled his arm around her and nuzzled once again into his side.

"Cold," she claimed, resting her head on his shoulder. He didn't complain, instead observing how she held his hand in place on her hip. It wasn't so much hugging as it was holding and that was fine. He could work his way up to hugging, he imagined. If he could kiss her hand and link arms then eventually a hug would be no problem.

Once in Glasgow proper, Clara began to turn and look out the window to take in her surroundings. Going by her wide eyes, it was clear to John that she had not actually gone in to Glasgow purely to see things. Her meticulous scanning of the landmarks made her look all the cuter. Cuter? Yes, she was cute. They got off the bus (or in Clara's case: bounced) and were greeted by a chilled breeze.

"So where are we going to go?" Clara wondered. She looked up at John, who was scanning their surroundings pensively.

"Not sure," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I was trying to come up with something this entire time, but I haven't been in Glasgow for much other than my books for a long time. There's a good chance that some of the stuff here's been closed because of the war, now that I think about it. I really should have thought this through better…"

"Well, when you were here a lot, where were you?" Clara asked. "No one makes a claim about Glasgow being lovely, let alone any city, without being in love with it themselves."

"I wouldn't say I'm in love with Glasgow now, but instead simmering a strong like for her," John chuckled. "I used to go to university here, once upon a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth and we humans fought them for dominance."

"Then let's start there," Clara said. "You at least remember where that is, right?"

"Of course, but we'll have to catch another bus," John smiled. He held out his elbow, which Clara happily took as they walked along the pavement.

The next bus ride was considerably shorter and soon John and Clara found themselves wandering part of the grounds of the University of Glasgow. It was quiet, as it was still early, leaving them two of the only people about.

"Where is everyone?" Clara asked. "Church?"

"Aha, no, probably still sleeping off whatever they did last night," John laughed. "Common uni student behavior… I thought you knew even if you never participated in such nights. Didn't you need to go to university to become a teacher?"

"I sat exams early and studied a lot," Clara frowned. "I didn't have much time to fritter about and learn about what my classmates were doing."

"Well you have time to fritter now, if I have anything to say about it," John said. Something caught his eye and he perked up. "Hey, the museum's still here… and it looks like it's open too. Want to go take a look?"

"Sure, why not," Clara shrugged. She allowed John to drag her up to the grey-brown stone building and usher her in. Soon they were wandering halls filled with paintings, every third one or so sending John to spiral off into a story from his school days.

The way his eyes lit up and his hands gestured as he regaled his adventures was something entirely new to her. Even during their second date, where they had sat up drinking tea and talking, he had not spoken this animatedly before. Now he was cracking jokes, awful jokes, though it was the little twitch the corner of his mouth made as he looked at her for a response that made her laugh. She watched him sketch a couple of the paintings, amazed that he was even allowed to do that in the first place— the way his grin turned clever and his whole body shifted into a pose of relaxed confidence as he processed the artwork in front of him was mesmerizing. He was where he most belonged and it made her smile just to see it all.

It had felt like only a few minutes, but before long they came out the other end of the corridors and found themselves in the main lobby again.

"Oh, already?" John asked, scratching his head. "I could have sworn there was more."

"I think there was as much as you remember, but we got a little too wrapped up," Clara chided, giggling. Her stomach gurgled loudly, silencing her laughter and causing her to go red in embarrassment.

"Skipped breakfast, did we?" John smirked as he checked his wristwatch. He double-checked the device and hissed. "Feck, how did we just spend five hours in here?"

"It was fun," Clara assured. They exited the building and found that the sun was high and warm, with many more people milling about and taking advantage of its presence. "How about lunch then, hmm?"

"That sounds like a plan," John agreed, just in time for his own stomach to squelch in a declaration of its own. Clara raised her eyebrows critically, to which he indignantly turned away from. "Come on, I know a pub just down the road with great pie."

Sure enough, the pie was some of the best Clara had eaten in a long time despite the fact the pub was dim and dingy and possessed strong smells she did not want to investigate the sources of. She and John laughed and giggled as they swapped stories about work and John reminisced about the varied drinking contests and philosophical debates he would find himself roped into in that very pub. They took their time eating and didn't notice how they spent multiple hours nibbling at pie and sipping their drinks until they stepped back outside and noticed the late-afternoon sun.

"I can't believe I told you I was going to show you Glasgow and all we've done so far is go to a museum and eat," John groaned as they walked down the pavement, headed nowhere in particular. "This must feel like a let-down. The day's almost over too… some date this turned out to be."

"It's not as bad as you make it out to be," Clara smiled. Something in a shop window they passed caught her eye and she stopped walking. "Oh, hang on John, I'll be right back." She disappeared into the shop, coming out a few minutes later clutching a small handful of tiny blue flowers.

"Shouldn't I be the one buying those for you?" John asked, confused. Clara laughed in response as they linked their arms back together.

"No; one of the other boarders in the house presses flowers, and she's never seen a harebell before on account of growing up in India. I just thought of it when we went by the shop—it's only a few stems."

"Thoughtful," John mused as they turned to walk into a park. A few minutes passed before an idea crossed his mind. "Clara?"

"Yes, John?"

"Mind if I… um… sketch you?"

"What, now?" Clara asked. John nodded his head silently. "Sure, I guess. Where did you want to…?"

"Right over here," John replied, taking Clara by the hand and leading her off the path. He sat her down at the base of a tree. "I'm sure your housemate won't mind her bluebells come a bit used." He concentrated as he gently took the flowers from Clara's hand and placed them behind her ear, weaving the stems into her hair and leaving the blossoms suspended by seemingly nothing. She rolled her eyes and chuckled at him as he knelt down in the grass a few feet away and took out his sketchbook.

A couple pose changes and many sketches later, the sun finally began to sink behind the buildings. Clara and John left the park giggling at one another and how they had managed to spend the time. They found a chip shop and bought fish and chips to-go as they began the long walk back to the Clydebank bus. It was dark by the time they finally boarded, sitting in the very back so as to quietly hold hands and let the sides of their legs touch without any spectators. The bus ride back seemed shorter than the bus ride to and eventually John and Clara found themselves meandering along through the dark town, light from the moon and the stars peeking through the thin, wispy clouds as their only guidance.

"I know you've been insisting today was nice, but I promise you that next time we're in Glasgow it's going to be extra-special," John sighed. They were walking down the pavement with his arm draped over her shoulders and hers around his waist.

"It was perfectly acceptable; I ought to thank you."

"For what? We didn't get to see nearly any of what we could have," John frowned, still convinced of his failure. Clara just tightened her hold on his waist in an one-armed hug.

"Thank you, John, for a lovely birthday," she said softly smiled as they turned the corner of a street. John glanced down at her and blinked in confusion.

"It's your _birthday_ too? You never told me that."

"Yeah, it is. Best birthday I've had in a while."

"You should have told me and maybe we could have gone somewhere a little nicer," John sulked. He sighed dejectedly and added, "So how old is the birthday girl?"

"Twenty-one."

John coughed in surprise. "O-Oh, that's right. You did say you weren't alive during the First World War. Well, you weren't alive during the fighting anyways. Twenty-one's the oldest you can really be, isn't it?"

"That it is," Clara said. She took her head off John's shoulder and looked at him. "When's your birthday?"

"November."

"What day?"

"Just… November. Here you are: back safe and sound."

Looking, Clara frowned to see that they had already reached the boarding house. John walked her up to the porch, staying on the bottom step as she continued up. Their arms and their hands lingered on one another as they slipped apart. By the time they were no longer touching, John spun on his heel to leave.

"See you another time then."

"Wait… John?"

Clara suddenly grabbed John's arm, stopping him from walking any further. He turned around and saw her on the porch with the flowers still behind her ear and light streaming out the window from behind her, the blackout curtain not yet drawn. With him still standing on the bottom step he was just short of being at eye-level with her.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

"…am I?"

"Oh, I think so." Clara smiled and leaned in towards John, bracing herself on his shoulders, and kissed him softly on the lips. She was slow and deliberate, internally chuckling at how he froze up in shock and couldn't even summon the muscles to respond.

She parted and leaned backwards, still smiling at his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and made to head towards the door. His hand, however, grabbed the nape of her neck and gently guided her back. When she looked again at his eyes she saw they had softened and become hazy, accentuated by a warm smile. As they kissed she found his movements his movements were affectionate, though unpracticed, and they stood there enjoying the moment until they were interrupted by a disapproving throat clearance. The house matron was standing in the entryway, her arms folded and her foot tapping.

"I think it's past your bedtime, my dear," John smirked, glancing at the matron as Clara's eyes flit open. She blushed and walked back into the house, allowing her hand to trail behind and stay on his face as long as possible. Once she was in the house, the matron came over to the steps and stared down John.

"Out of all the men in this town, I never thought I'd have to worry about you," she hissed.

"Belinda, _you_ have nothing to worry about when it comes to me—you've never even been on my radar." He had his hands raised in mock defense, flashing his teeth out of the corner of his mouth. "There is a reason your missus status is only a courtesy, or should the young ladies not know that?"

"I will not have a boarding house of sin, John Smith," the matron snapped back as she went red in the face. "Do _not_ think you can coerce any of my boarders into shaming themselves now that you've suddenly discovered what your cock is for."

John burst into laughter, nearly falling into the porch steps. "Ach, Mother help me… I don't think I've ever heard you say a funnier thing in my entire life!"

"Then explain to me why you keep on seeing this girl, John. A _girl_. Is this another one of your rushes where you think you're too good to play by the rules everyone else has to follow? Act your age, like you've got a brain in that head of yours, for once in your life!"

Sighing wistfully, John leaned on the rail and looked up at the night sky. He could feel the cold glare pricking at his neck, but happily ignored it. "Don't worry, Belinda. Your house will always be one of virtue and respectability. I'm not making her do anything she doesn't want to, which should be respectable enough for any household. Besides, I don't want to screw this up—I've always known there would be a girl out there for me, but I never thought it would take this long to find her… or if I ever would."

"Well, then just know I've got my eye on you John," Belinda huffed. "You're an old man without even kids that need caring for. It's not proper."

"Shagging the nanny? Blimey, Belinda, I'm not your brother."

"…and keep it that way. Now shoo; I need to lock up now."

Without another word, John pushed himself off the railing and began to walk away. He smiled to the dark street as he went along the pavement—if it wasn't proper, then may he be called up to serve King and Country tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written and originally posted before we had a canon date for Clara's birthday, so I do apologize for the confusion.


	5. Late February 1940

It all happened because he decided to be _early_.

Clara was instructing her students to go to bed when John walked in the open classroom door, his satchel sitting firmly on his shoulder and an accomplished grin spread across his face. The grin, however, subsided when he saw twenty curious sets of eyes, and one mortified set, stare at him.

"Kids, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Smith," Clara quickly explained. " _Normally_ he comes after you're asleep to help me with my paperwork."

"Oh, I've seen him before!" giggled one of the girls. "He was here a couple weeks ago!"

"That's right," Clara said nervously. "So if you kids see him there's nothing to worry about, alright?"

"Wow, you're old," one of the boys pointed out bluntly. John's ears went red.

"Michael!" Clara scolded. "That is rude!"

"…but it's true!" the little boy protested. Chuckling, John put his bag down on the front desk.

"Well, if I was really that old, could I still do this?" he asked. In one fluid motion John picked up the boy with one arm and flung him over his shoulder. Wiggling and writhing in an attempt to escape, the child remained firmly in his grasp as he chuckled. The other children, appalled by their comrade's capture, instantly swarmed John and brought him to his knees in a fit of laughter.

"Children! Children! Oh my God, children, _behave_!" Clara shouted, diving into the chaos. By the time she uncovered John from the pile of kids, he was lying spread-eagle on his back and snickering quietly to himself.

"Thanks for saving me," John smirked. He stood up and reached for his bag, only to stop mid-motion and put a hand under the collar of his jumper to touch his shoulder.

"They didn't hurt you, did they?" Clara asked. John shook his head.

"No; this is an old shirt and the seam on the shoulder popped, again. Do you have needle and thread I can borrow until I get this home?"

"Top right drawer of the desk," Clara said. She then turned to the children and hardened her voice. "First, what is it that Mr. Smith needs to hear?"

"Sorry," they said in unison. John smiled at the students, accepted the apology, and took his bag to disappear into the office.

"Alright kids, bedtime," Clara said. She clapped her hands and her charges began to shuffle back to their mats unhappily, a mix of grumbles and whispers. Once they were all down and tucked in, Clara watched them momentarily before slipping back into her office.

"Oh, good, can you please thread this for me? It doesn't seem to want to for my old eyes," John said. Clara looked over at him to see that his jumper had been discarded on the couch and his torn shirt now lay across his lap. He readjusted his spectacles with one hand as he held out the needle and thread with the other—his arms were well-defined and taut, though not overtly muscular, a fact his vest and braces did nothing to hide. Clara took and threaded the needle, handing it back.

"H-Here," she said, trying to stay calm. John took it and allowed his gaze to linger slightly before getting to work on his shirt.

' _Better be safe on this one_ ,' Clara thought. She quietly shut the office door the remainder of the way and hit the latch to lock it. "Do you like the radio? Any sort of music in particular?"

"Oh, anything's fine," John replied, not looking up from the shirt. Clara turned on the radio that sat atop her desk and tuned it to a station she knew to play music. It didn't matter what it was; she just needed the cover. She moved the device so it was closer to the door and turned back to John, who had just finished. "There, now that's better… for the time being at least. Thanks for the needle."

"You're welcome," Clara said, taking the needle from him and replacing it in the drawer. She turned back to see John inspecting his handiwork, satisfied. "I didn't know you could sew."

"Knew a textile major in school, not to mention the Army and career bachelorhood forcing me to keep up my skills," he shrugged as Clara quietly joined him on the couch. "It's nothing major, and if it is major the neighborhood wives are willing to help in exchange for the thread involved and being a sitter for a few hours. All I can say is thank goodness for them and their husbands for putting up with me."

Clara nodded, her attention elsewhere as she gingerly placed a hand on his bicep. He stared at her in a mixture of both curiosity and fear.

"What's the matter?"

"I didn't know you were hiding under those jumpers," she replied. John licked his lips and looked away to avoid her gaze.

"I'm not hiding," he blushed. "It's February. It's cold in February."

Clara rested her forehead on John's shoulder, kissing his arm lightly. How did she not think about it before? His job was rough, working him for oftentimes twelve hours per day and six days per week. It would be more surprising if he was a waifish rail underneath his lumpy jumpers and poorly-mended shirts. Crawling up to her knees, she turned his face towards her own and kissed him again. John twitched in surprise; this was not what he had thought they'd get around to, especially at this hour and in this place. He opened his mouth to politely suggest saving kissing for later, realizing too late it that it allowed Clara to run her tongue between his parted lips and past his teeth.

"Um… C-C-Clara…?" John stammered. "W-What about the k-k-kids…?"

"They usually don't bother me unless it's an emergency," Clara assured John quietly, gently easing him down onto the couch. He hesitated, glancing quickly at the door, and slowly relaxed into her touch. Cautiously, he swung his legs up and scrunched them into the tiny remaining bit of couch as she straddled his waist and resumed kissing him, starting at his mouth and trailing down his scratchy jaw and along the curve of his neck. John closed his eyes and accepted his position, melting into a quiet moan. He shakily brought his arms up and placed his hands on Clara's waist in an effort to seem like two decades of dormancy had not completely destroyed his instincts.

They kept at it, with Clara alternating between his lips and collarbone, until John's hips hitched involuntarily. Clara gasped in surprise; until then his participation had been limited to strained moans and trembling kisses. She looked down at John, whose face was dark red. He shakily took off his spectacles and put a hand behind her head to pull her close enough so that he could whisper in her ear.

"Would you mind telling me the directions to the staff loo?"

"Now…?" Clara scrunched her face in confusion. "Why _now_?"

"I need to, erm, adjust myself, please. Things are getting a wee tight."

"…oh," Clara said in realization. "Left corridor, right-hand side, between the children's." She slid off John as he groped for his jumper, which he put on over his vest and braces, without bothering with his shirt, and rushed out of the office. Clara straightened the hem of her skirt and looked out over the classroom—the children were all quiet and asleep. The large clock on the wall told her it was nearly ten… Christ, time had passed quicker than she had thought. She sat down at her desk and began to pull out her stationary in order to get at least a little bit of work done.

Two letters later John returned, adjusted enough to be able to leave a kiss on Clara's cheek as he closed the office door again. He shed his jumper and immediately went about putting his shirt back on, shrugging out of his braces and working the buttons quickly.

"Clara…"

"Hmm?"

"There are _children_ on the other side of that door."

"I know."

He tucked in his shirttails and replaced his braces.

"Children from good and decent homes…"

"I know."

John pulled his jumper back on and flopped back down onto the couch. He looked over at Clara, who was diligently writing, and sighed to himself, allowing a small smile. Quietly, he reached into his bag, pulled out his sketchbook and pencils, and began to draw.

"…though that was exciting," he admitted eventually. Clara chuckled to herself and continued writing.

"I know."


	6. March 1940

Clara walked quickly down the pavement, ignoring the occasional suspicious look she was getting from the neighbors. She tunneled her senses so that she could concentrate on nothing but the click of her heels and the basket on her arm. After letting herself into the gate at 12 Wissforn, she found the key that had been carefully hidden in the gate pillar and walked up to the door.

"Been spending a lot of time over at Johnny's lately, haven't you lass?" smirked a voice. Clara almost dropped the key in surprise; Eunice Rigby had a knack for appearing out of nowhere to ask invasive questions and now was definitely no different. She glanced over at the woman hanging over the garden wall, looking very much the hard-worn housewife with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and deep lines on her face despite not yet being forty.

"Yes I have, Mrs. Rigby," Clara replied stiffly. "I've spent enough time over here to know that the only things he tends to eat during the week are sandwiches and chips and things out of tins… and not just because of the war. I thought I'd surprise John with a proper dinner for once."

"It's not right, you know, the two of you," Eunice said. She coughed from her cigarette, halting and coarse, before continuing. "You could have so much more than him. If you wanted, there's better out there. Younger, your own sort, won't go bone-idle once the war's over…"

"What I _want_ is to just surprise someone who doesn't get the chance to cook with a nice supper," Clara said. She unlocked the door, replaced the key in the gate pillar, and went inside without giving Eunice the satisfaction of another word.

Once inside Clara went straight to work. First she straightened up in the kitchen, making it more suitable for cooking in. Parts of it showed a considerable lack of use within the past half-year and she refused to function with a dusty countertop. After that she took the meat and vegetables from her basket and began to cook, feeling smug over the fact she had been able to procure the food on such short-notice. She started to broil a small roast, careful to mind the fact she was cooking over a wood stove of all things, then peeled and boiled some potatoes, along with steaming carrots. The meal was not going to be large or fancy, but Clara felt lucky that she was able to get at least this together considering how tight rationing was making things.

After realizing she still had time left before John came home, Clara left the food in the oven to stay warm and sat down on the couch in the sitting room. She took some papers out of the bag she had tucked neatly away in the bottom of her basket—lists of potential homes to send children—and began to draft up a couple letters using the coffee table to write on. She was able to get about four letters done before she heard the lock to the front door slide open and John drag himself wearily into the house. He paused, sniffed the air loudly, and walked straight into the kitchen.

Smiling to herself, Clara stood and walked over to the kitchen door to watch as John marveled at the set table and the food keeping warm in the oven cinders. He turned around and stared at her leaning on the doorjamb, speechless.

"I thought you could do with a decent meal in you for once," she said. John sighed and walked over to Clara, holding her by the shoulders and, after hesitating, gave her a quick kiss.

"Thank you," he said. "How did you get a hold of this stuff without using both our cards? I didn't think meat was easy to come by in the middle of the week."

"It's not exactly the best cut, and don't ask otherwise," Clara chuckled. "I had some time, so I wanted to do something different with it."

"You put the children on the train today…?" John asked as he sat down. "I thought the children's home wasn't ready to take them until next week."

"I got a telegram this morning saying they were cleared to go, and that I'm getting a whole new set on Saturday," Clara explained. She took the roast out of the oven and set it on the table. "This means I have three whole days for just myself."

"…and you spend the first of them making my dinner…"

"I could be at the boarding house right now catching up on my reading, or at work writing letters, or doing any number of things. Don't push it," Clara laughed. She finished unloading the oven and sat down, letting John serve himself before taking her own food. "Now I'm wondering as to how often the neighborhood bachelor has even cooked for himself."

"Enough, but it's exhausting when I don't exactly have any time. I really appreciate this Clara, honest." John popped a forkful of roast in his mouth and had to stop himself from shivering in surprise. "I don't think I've tasted something this good since September."

"Only because you've been living off of tinned beans and chips," Clara replied, holding her hand in front of her mouth to shield the fact she had been in the middle of chewing carrots.

"No, I'm serious… this is really good. Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"I'd help my mum out in the kitchen a lot. She was an excellent baker, and although I'm not at her level she made sure I knew my way around a recipe. Dad was pretty grateful for that; I think I did all the cooking for two straight years, since it took him a lot longer than me to learn."

"Oh…" John said quietly. He put down his fork and knife and looked across the table at Clara. "I'm sorry…"

She shook her head, stopping him. "No, don't be. Things happen, don't they? Besides, I think she'd like this."

"Pardon?" John asked. He watched Clara as her line of sight trailed off to her potatoes before snapping back into focus. "What would your mam have liked?"

"Oh, this surprise," she shrugged. "She was always making nice surprises for my dad and me for when we'd come home from work and school. I guess it was her way of making us feel special."

"That was very kind of her," John said. "Now you're the one being kind, breaking into my house and using my kitchen like it's yours. What would your mam say about that?" He smirked at Clara across the table, who coyly ate forkful of potatoes.

"It would have been her idea, probably. I'm sure she would have liked you."

"…you think so?" John tilted his head curiously.

"I know so."

They finished off the rest of the dinner making small talk, mostly chatter about what was going to happen with the newly-placed children. The only thing left afterwards was a bit of meat just large enough for a sandwich later. Clara laughed at that as she put the leftover in the icebox and started on the dishes. John tried to help, but was shooed away and forcibly sat back down at the table.

They did not talk as Clara washed dishes, leaving John to think quietly. This had been an extremely kind thing for Clara to do and he was unsure about what came next. He quickly glanced at her, blushing, _aching_ , wondering if it was fine to feel the way he did. Well, of _course_ it was _fine_ … everyone was allowed to feel light-headed and in a romantic daze if they wanted to be… but it had just been so long since he could have been considered in his prime that the idea should have been comical. He didn't even know if he was following dating protocol anymore, considering how much it could have changed since the last time he was with a woman. The rest of life up until then had seemed very make-up-as-you-go, and this felt no different.

What John knew though, knew absolutely and one-hundred-percent for certain, was that he was in love with Clara. The memory of romantic love felt distant to him, though when he was with her it rose up and thrashed about with a level of intensity he had forgotten existed. It was raw and consuming and made him extremely hesitant; the idea that Clara could possibly not love him back that way hurt enough to keep him second-guessing himself. She cared for him, obviously, but what if she was not in love as he was with her? They had already spent multiple nights kissing and caressing, though how many times when he was Clara's age did he get piss-drunk in his favorite pub only find himself a few hours later with a girl he barely knew halfway down his throat? John wouldn't blame Clara if she wanted nothing more than a companion, and he supposed the thought of holding her in his arms was enough for him. She could choose whether to push him away or descend on him and leave marks, marks that showed his co-workers he was still taken, marks that announced how serious he was in his commitment to her. He loved the marks she left, tiny and full of life, and if that was all the satisfaction he got, then so be it.

The sound of metal on tile broke John's concentration and he snapped his head towards the sink. Clara had dropped a knife and cursed under her breath as she bent down to pick the utensil up. She looked his way momentarily, averting her gaze as soon as their eyes locked on one another. John's eyes stayed on her, however, as she straightened and continued her work.

Maybe—he thought—he could give a hint to how he felt. It was his house though, so should he be the one to initiate anything? Yes; yes he could. John could lay the pack of cards on the table, but it was Clara's choice to pick up the deck and deal the hand to work with. He was the house, though she the advantage. He chewed his lower lip and decided.

_Yes_.

As Clara was beginning to finish up the last of the dishes, John stood up and walked over to stand behind her. He cautiously put his hands on her waist and, when she did not flinch at him, bent down to gently kiss her neck.

"Thank you… again," he murmured. John looked at Clara's hands—they were not moving as she held a pot partially submerged in water. He let go and slowly began to back away, only for her to turn around and abandon the pot with wide, glazed eyes.

"Don't…" was all Clara was able to get out before she pulled John down by the face and kissed him roughly, her hands still wet from dishwater. He stumbled back in surprise, her matching his movement to keep the kiss going. As soon as he got his bearings again, John wrapped an arm around her hips, lifting her up so they were level with one another. He leaned his back against the wall, with Clara taking it upon herself to straddle his hips and run her soap-covered fingers through his hair still slick with sweat.

They couldn't stay in the kitchen, as it was still too warm from cooking. The sitting room drapes were open and drawing them in daylight would cause suspicion… John broke the kiss and put Clara back down on the ground. They looked at one another in breathless confusion until he took her by the hand and led her towards the stairs, expression turning towards nervous and hopeful. Clara immediately understood, returning the look before grasping his hand as they both ran up the steps.

Later on John could not exactly remember crashing on his bed or trailing up and down Clara's body with gasping kisses and awkward hands or even being pushed onto his back as their chests pressed together and her grasp on him became tight. What he did remember was the feeling of his skin, rough here and loose there, against her soft limbs and how he could taste dinner all over again as she moaned into his mouth and how hard she accidentally bit his lower lip as he came, apparently having forgotten the sensation since the last time she went to bed with a man was well before the war. How long ago was that again? Six months? In some ways it had felt like six years.

The two slumped into one another's arms, curling up together underneath the bedding. They kissed while in a daze, murmuring teases and whispers across the pillow in an effort to make the other blush or giggle. Slowly though, the effect of John's long shift at the shipyard began to take its toll, as his lips became less responsive and his eyes relaxed into sleep. Clara reached up to run her hand over his face, tracing over his relaxed brow and scratchy jawline, before seeing the watch still sitting on her wrist. It was late, too late for comfort, and the panic jolted her awake. Rolling out of John's embrace, Clara sat up and began to rummage around for her hastily discarded clothes.

"No, please don't go," John whispered sleepily. He reached out and tried to grab her arm, but his body was too heavy to support itself.

"I have to go," Clara said gently. "If I'm not back before the boarding house closes, my things will be out on the lawn."

"Bring your things here… just please… stay a while longer."

"Good night, John. Tomorrow? At the pub?"

"I love you."

Clara sighed sadly and looked over her shoulder at John, who was so exhausted he seemed to have fallen asleep. For all Clara knew, that entire exchange could have been in his sleep. She finished dressing and leaned over the bed to kiss him on his brow, beads of oil and sweat kissing her back.

"I love you too."

* * *

The following morning John woke with a crick in his shoulder from having been hyperextended over the course of the night. His arm was draped across the bed, stretched over rumpled linen that normally lay flat and crisp. A hazy smile spread across his lips as he blinked the sleep from his eyes—he was sore all over, but it was the sort of sore he had not felt in a very long time and didn't mind revisiting. He sat up and noticed a folded piece of paper on the vanity with his name on it, which he took and read.

' _Sorry I had to leave, but you know Mrs. Hendricks. Six-thirty, pub first, then we can pick up where we left off. I love you_.'

"I love you too," John repeated, putting the note back on the vanity. He forced himself out of bed and around the cold room to pick up his clothes that had been discarded haphazardly the night before. Rotating the ache from his shoulder, he tossed his clothes into the middle of his bed; he was going to have to change the sheets already based on the fact he still smelled of shipyard. Well, smelling of metallic sweat and oily machinery hadn't been a problem the night before… but that was beside the point. It was all going to have to be balled up later and tossed in the wash before anything else happened later that night.

After a long, hot shower to relax his muscles, John resumed his normal morning routine. He dressed, skipped shaving for the day, packed a lunch using the leftover meat from Clara's roast (which he was able to fit into _two_ sandwiches), and had his own quick breakfast of toast and marmalade before walking out the door and setting off for work.

By the time John made it down to work, he noticed something rather odd about everyone he was running into: everyone was laughing and a bit more chipper than usual. He'd catch people looking his way and smirking, almost as if there was some big joke he was not in on. Were they playing a prank on him? No… pranks at this place were saved for birthdays. Did he miss something on the radio the night before? That was likely, considering how intensely he had been occupied. Did the Nazis surrender already? No, they couldn't have—no one would be at work if that was the case. Had there been a match last night? No, he would have known about that as well. He walked up to his locker, right next to where Verity was putting her jacket in hers.

"Rough night last night?" she deadpanned as John opened his locker. He glanced over at her—she was the exact opposite of everyone else with hard, judgmental eyes.

"What… erm… makes you say that…?" John asked nervously, putting his lunch away. "Everyone else just seems to be in a really good mood. Did I miss something?"

"Do they seem to be happy once they see you?" Verity asked.

"Yeah…?"

"Mmm. I see." She slammed her locker shut and left seething. Collette almost bumped into her as they crossed paths, making the younger woman jump.

"What's her problem?" she asked John, staring over her shoulder at Verity. She turned back to John, only to double-take when she saw him.

"Everyone's acting weird today, Collette," John frowned. "Verity's crosser than usual and the guys are almost _too_ happy. What's going on?"

"Umm… I have an idea, but, um, you've got a little something…" Collette said. She scratched her lip, just above the chin. John blinked at her.

"Already? For crying out loud…" He wiped his mouth and chin with the sleeve of his jumper. "Better?"

Sighing heavily, Collette dug into her pocket and produced a compact that she opened and held out for John to take. He gingerly held it in his hand and brought it up so he could see in the mirror—a large and unsightly bite-shaped bruise was covering his bottom lip. John blushed as he quickly snapped the compact shut and handed it back.

"Th-thanks," he said. "Th-that explains a lot."

"Was it the teacher lady from London?"

"She's actually from Blackpool, but yeah." He scratched the back of his head in nervousness. "Um… can I ask you a favor?"

"What?"

"Smack me in the face with a bucket while on shift; hide the bruise and maybe Verity will talk to me sometime this month."

"That'll just give you a black eye," Collette giggled, high and airy. John laughed too, though out of mortification instead, and leaned so that his forehead connected with the metal of the lockers.

It was going to be a rough day.


	7. Early April 1940

John sighed as he peered into the opened side of the film projector, using his penlight to take a careful look around. Dust caked the inside of the device, making it so that he would definitely have to clean it out before he even thought about turning it on. He reached into his bag that was sitting opened on the floor and grabbed a dry paintbrush to begin sweeping out the inner mechanisms.

"What'cha doing?" asked a tiny voice. John looked out of the corner of his eyes to see two of Clara's students, a boy and a girl, standing near him, way too close for them being the only three in the room. It would have been best had they left, but considering he was currently in the back of the classroom they were temporarily calling _home_ he felt it would have been an unwise thing to shout them off.

"Making sure we don't die in a fire," he grumbled instead.

"Why would we catch on fire?" the little boy asked. John just kept on squinting at the little gears and sprockets as he dusted.

"Because film sometimes does that if you're not careful, especially the stock I'm going to put in here later," he explained. "Now don't you have some rope to jump or footballs to kick?"

"But you're much more interesting than football," the little girl said. She strained herself to stay in one place while still looking around John and into his bag to read the label on the film reel. " _Schneewittchen_ …? What's that?"

"Don't worry; you'll like it," John said.

"Isn't that German? Are you a German?" the girl asked, seemingly ignoring his comment. John paused his cleaning and finally looked at the children, his face set in unamused self-restraint. He leaned closer to the kids, prompting them both to lean back nervously.

"You try getting your hands on a personal copy of one of the greatest works of cinematic art the English speaking world has _ever seen_ without it costing you an arm and a leg." He scowled sourly and leaned back, returning to his dusting. "I got it _from_ a German woman in Edinburgh who, for the record, had an Irish mam. Besides, that was a couple years ago at this point."

"Oh," the little boy mused. "So then Miss Oswald isn't dating a German spy. That's boring."

"Now what would make you say I'm dating your teacher?" John asked. He finished sweeping out the dust and put it away in his bag, only to bring out a smaller-tipped paintbrush and a container of grease to oil the gears.

"You're here almost every night Miss Oswald is, and we saw you and her kissing last night in her office," the boy said. "You're not married, so that means you're just her boyfriend, right?"

"I'm not her _boy_ friend," John hissed. The kids had all looked very much in dreamland the previous night when he finally arrived at the school, which _might_ have led him and Clara to not shut the office door as firmly as they usually did. At least they had very strict guidelines for themselves while at the school and kissing was all the children had been able to see. "Do I look like a boy to you?"

"Then are you her manfriend? 'Cause you're not just her friend because just-friends don't sit really close and kiss," the girl replied. John stopped greasing a gear and looked at her.

"What's your name?"

"Barbara, and this is Jack."

"Well then Barbara, Jack, why don't you two run along so I can finish up before Miss Oswald brings the rest of your classmates back in? Get the last bits of sunlight on your face while you can."

"Do you need any help?" Jack asked. "We're good at helping, and Barbara even wants to be a teacher too." John went back to greasing.

"I'm sure you are both excellent helpers; now shoo."

The two kids stood there silently as John finished the final gear. He stood up from his chair and stretched before going back down into his bag and grabbing the film reel canister. Barbara and Jack stayed put.

"I told you to go outside," John frowned. "Where is Miss Oswald, anyways?"

"Outside," the children said in unison. They both watched as John threaded the film stock through the projector and aligned it along the sprockets. John tried to ignore them, but their collective gaze both annoyed and unnerved him.

"I'm starting to think that you two are here just to irritate me," John growled.

"Why do you like Miss Oswald?" Barbara asked. "The two of you don't seem a lot alike."

"I like her because…" John started before trailing off, thinking for a moment about how to fit his rationale into words appropriate for a stranger's child. "I like Miss Oswald because when I'm with her I feel very happy… she makes me feel like I can do anything. She is clever and smart and very loving and caring."

"The kissing part helps too, doesn't it?" Jack asked. John sighed in defeat.

"The kissing part doesn't hurt, no."

It was then that the rest of the students began to stream into the room, bringing with them a roar of excitement. Barbara and Jack finally joined their classmates by helping them clear their desks from the middle of the room and laying out the sleeping mats in front of the projector. Clara came in not long after, carrying a sheet and some clothes pegs borrowed from a supply cupboard.

"Thank you for helping me do this for the kids," Clara said as John took the sheet from her and began to fasten it to the blackboard. Since the room had not been used until her arrival, it had yet to be fitted with a projector screen.

"They need some arts and culture in their lives, and this is cheaper than the cinema," John shrugged. He and Clara then went into her office and began to remove the couch from it. They brought it to the back of the classroom, behind the students' mats and to the right of the projector. "I'm just glad that I remembered I even had this."

"…and in the right format too." Clara put down her end of the couch and watched John as he slid it deftly into place. "I didn't know they distributed feature-length films for use in school projectors."

"Here's the thing: they don't," he grinned, giving her a knowing wink. He then proceeded to wade through the sea of children and make his way towards the lights as Clara double-checked the drawn curtains. "Okay, okay, settle down you little pudding-brained monsters or no film for you tonight."

The class collectively gasped and the room fell silent as John reached the switch. He shut off the lights and took the penlight from his pocket, waving it around to make sure he did not step on any children as he hopped back over them. John flicked on the projector and waited for the credits to finish before joining Clara on the couch. He put his arm around her as she snuggled into his side, pulling the blanket draped over the back of the couch down and over them. Smoothing it out, he tucked the blanket behind her hip and under his leg in order to keep it in place.

"I don't know if I appreciate that this is an illegal copy," Clara whispered into John's ear as a storybook appeared on the makeshift screen and the children became entranced by the narration. John turned towards her and left a light kiss on her lips.

"I'm just frustrated that no one has been able to get a copy of Pinocchio over here," he murmured. "That, and I hear that there's supposed to be another animated film coming later in the year that's pure art mixed with orchestra music. Too bad we're not likely to see either until after the war. Wouldn't that be great though? Art to music, music to art… changing the game like this movie did."

"That sounds like the artist in you unable to contain himself," Clara smiled while rolling her eyes. She rested her head on John's shoulder and sighed contently as she watched the princess sing to birds fluttering around. Everything felt so calm it was almost as if she was not at work.

The children, all captivated by a movie many of them probably had not have seen when it was at the cinema, were calm and occupied and were going to go to sleep that night easier than on most. Clara and John would have to wait until a few more tiny heads found pillows before they got around to the activity she remembered best about going to the cinema, but at least it was not going to be a bad wait. She smiled to herself as John kissed the top of her head and ran his hand up and down her arm; Snow White was meeting her prince, which felt oddly satisfying to Clara. She then paused.

"John?"

"Yes, Clara?"

"I know I probably should have asked you before, but why do you have this film?" She leaned in so that her voice could just barely whisper over the clacking of the projector. "No kids, not even ones you mind on Wednesdays, and yet this film is _adorable_."

"I told you: this is _art_ ," John insisted. Clara pressed her face in John's chest and snickered.

"Don't give me that," came her muffled reply.

"No… it's true." He gently lifted her chin up so he could look at her, then brought his hand away so he could gesture at the screen. "What those blokes did is tell a story more complicated with moving pictures than anyone in the entire Empire _or_ the former colonies have before. These are all hand-drawn people and things, each deliberately penciled and inked and put to words and music. These aren't silent silhouettes… they're actual _things_ … and it's beautiful."

Clara studied the glint in John's eye coming off the projector screen. There was excitement there, but there was also sadness deep underneath. It was curious, she thought, to be so genuinely in awe of something, yet to be so unhappy as well.

"You know," he continued, "I thought that, maybe, one day, after I retired, I might try to do something like this. Just myself, no one else; if a German woman can take three years making cutouts I think I can take four or five doing this. I don't know if I will now though."

"Why not?"

John bent his neck, hovering behind Clara's ear. "Art used to be the only thing that made me happy. Now, not so much." He kissed her lightly and began to leave a soft trail across her face until he found her nose. Playfully, she tried to nip at his in retaliation though eventually settled for pulling down his face as they leaned into one another's kiss.

The wicked stepmother cackled, only to be met with a chorus of " _eewww_ " from the children. Clara opened her eyes to look at the screen but was instead met with a number of her students staring at her instead.

"The show is that way," she said, pointing towards the front of the room. Most of the kids turned back but one little boy shuffled his way over and looked up at them curiously. "What is it, Jack?"

"Miss, did you know your manfriend is a German spy?" the little boy asked, his voice very hushed. John threw his head back and groaned while Clara tried to not laugh.

"A German spy? Nonsense. Go back to the movie."

"He's a German spy; Barbara and I can tell, so be careful," Jack said. He crept up onto the couch so that he could whisper directly into his teacher's ear. "Dad says people have to put their money where their mouth is, which sounds like nonsense, but I think is has something to do with where people put their mouths. I wouldn't put your mouth on a spy if I was you, Miss Oswald."

"Jack, he's not a spy…"

"…but you're back here being like Mum and Dad! I don't think I could handle us having to be big brothers and sisters to a baby spy…"

Clara took a deep breath and held it, slowly exhaling before turning to the boy and hissing, "For the last time, go back to the movie."

"…but Miss…"

"Mr. Smith is not a Nazi spy, you are going to be placed in a home soon, and I am not having any babies—not any time soon anyways. Now go."

The boy grumbled and returned to his mat. Once he was down Clara's head snapped in the direction of John, who had gone beet-red.

"What did you tell them?" she hissed.

"N-nothing… they just saw I hadn't changed the original label yet, is all… I didn't think any of them _knew_ what German looked like…"

"Well once we are back in the office you are going to tell me everything you said to those kids, you hear me? Right down to where that thought about babies came from."

"I never said anything about—" John began, only to be cut off by Clara's hand covering his lips. He quieted and settled back down, allowing her to curl back up into his side and draw the blanket closer as Snow White was brought into the forest. Babies had been the last thing on his mind; how daft were these children? Him and babies… Clara… they had just been _kissing_ …

Never did he have to sit through a film that made him so uneasy before this.


	8. Mid-April 1940

It was early in the evening as John lay sprawled in his bed, head resting comfortably on Clara's chest. He kept his eyes closed and smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair lazily, looking up at the ceiling. Any heat they generated had long dissipated, which made the blanket he had pulled up over them all the more necessary.

"John?" Clara spoke to the room. He murmured into her breast, unintelligible though confirming he was listening. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"The First World War… the Great War… did you ever, you know, see an end to it?"

John opened his eyes and lifted himself onto his elbows. "What do you mean?"

"When you were in the battlefield, did you ever have a feeling how long the war was going to last?"

"No. Never." John slid up to join Clara by the pillows, dragging the blanket with him. He made sure she was covered and pulled back some hair from her face. "We never saw an end. Some of us still haven't seen the end—lots of men lost themselves on the battlefield. _I_ wasn't even that sure how much of myself was still left scattered all over the mainland for a long time." He paused, studying her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just… I hear about the war from the older teachers at school, the ones old enough to remember their fathers and brothers going off to volunteer—Mr. Greene even served—and so many of them talk of the war now as if it's something that will be over by Christmas…"

"…and you don't see it, can you?"

"No, I can't," Clara sighed. "I want to, I really do. I want to see the end of the war and say that yes we can flatten the Reich before they even think about bombing the capitol and setting foot on British soil, but at the same time… I don't know John. I can't see it."

"Don't listen to them," John said. He wrapped an arm around Clara's waist and pulled her close, tucking the top of her head beneath his chin. "Do you want to know where Alistair Greene served?"

"Where…?"

"In an office in Kent. He talks as if he saw action, but he is just the largest coward there is… taking credit for other people's service instead of admitting he was unable to go to the front."

"…but his leg…"

"…got mangled during training—I saw. It was a nasty fall that should have killed him, yeah, I won't deny that, but most people around here know he's just lying through his teeth when he says he got hit during the Somme. I wouldn't be so critical if he simply _admitted_ he spent his service in an office in Kent, but he insists that he's been all over the Continent fighting when his fight was nowhere near where the rest of us were. His leg was so screwed up that not even a pals battalion would take him."

"You mean, those units formed by men from one area or profession?"

"Yeah. I was never in one, but those were fairly popular for a time. Greene never saw a day of action in his life, and neither did any of those dried up old bats you work with. They don't know what it's like; too hung up on the 'Great' part of something that was not all that great in the slightest. They think they understand, and most of them mean well, but they can't really grasp that sense of futility. You have a clue, I think, and that's what counts."

Clara rubbed her forehead into John's chest and grumbled. "They ask me what I plan on doing after the war is over. Almost weekly I have to say I have no idea and they give me lectures about how I need to get my life together and plan ahead and think seriously about finding a stable man with a steady job that I can make a home with."

"I'm stable," he gasped in sarcastic defense. "Am I not good enough for Cockerel Greene and his Gossip Hens?"

"I know what they say is rubbish, but every lecture holds a warning about how you're not the sort of man I should be looking for."

"…because they think they can see into the future." He smirked, causing Clara to exhale distantly.

"You're the man I want right now, John." She shifted until she was looking down into his eyes, sitting on his waist and propping her elbows on his shoulders. "We don't have the luxury of living for the future. I can't see the end of the war like other people claim to, and that's just fine. Right now I'm happy… _we're_ happy… and that's what matters."

"I guess it is, isn't it?" John smiled. He reached back down underneath the blanket and ran his hands over her hips as she leaned down to kiss his mouth. After a bit Clara began to trail off, moving to his chin and down his throat and towards his collarbone. He moaned slightly before letting loose a throaty rumble in his chest. "Clara?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's say you could see the end of the war. Say tomorrow the King comes on the radio and announces that the Nazis surrendered? What would you do?"

Clara paused her work, laying down on John's chest as she thought. "I… I guess I'd work on sending the kids back to London."

"Would you… go back?"

"I suppose so," Clara said. "I have to make sure the kids all get back home safe first, but then I'd have to go. There's not many jobs I can do in Clydebank, so unless there's an opening in the school I won't have a job, and without a job I can't pay rent."

"I see," John frowned. He ran a hand up her spine, eventually reaching her hair which he began to comb with his fingers. "Would you visit?"

"Of course I would," Clara chuckled. She sat up and gave John a coy grin, sliding her hands over his chest. "But you know… that's only if the King announces _tomorrow_ that the war is done. I might change my mind by Wednesday."

"Then let me work on persuading you," John smirked, pulling Clara back down and rolling on top of her. She giggled as he nuzzled his shadowy beard into her neck and began to work his hands along the various sweet spots he was beginning to memorize and grow confident with.

* * *

Later that evening John lay on his back as Clara searched the bedroom for various articles of clothing, keeping his eyes closed while listening to her movements. His whole body was still warm and sticky but also weary from both his long shift catching up to him and for indulging his girlfriend (and himself) twice. But he was glad for his job being the reason he even went into the pub the night he did at the time he did that had allowed him to even meet her, making him more than willing to endure the soreness.

"John? Where's my knickers?" John opened his eyes and looked at Clara—she looked fully-dressed already.

"Hmm…?"

"Are they in the bedsheets? I can't keep on losing my knickers in your bedroom; when it comes time for laundry someone's going to notice my distinct _lack_ of them."

"Notice and be jealous, I bet," John chuckled. He sat up and looked around his immediate vicinity—the knickers were on the floor between the bed and the vanity. After picking them up he passed them to Clara, who immediately slid them on underneath her skirt and sat down on the bed to put on her garters and stockings.

"Don't lie," she said. "No one's jealous of me. They worry I'm throwing my future away for you."

"I thought we didn't have a future, not until there's a ceasefire." John slid across the bed and carefully brushed back Clara's hair so he could press kisses on the back of her exposed neck. Clara continued with her stockings, allowing the contact that possessed all the love from earlier in the night yet none of the energy.

"We don't, but that doesn't mean there's no risk involved. I thought you knew that."

"I never said anything about risk." Slowly, the kisses began to move towards the side of Clara's neck and at the base of her jaw. "When the war is over, and we decide to go our separate ways, we are going to risk a lot."

"I meant there's risk now. John… you know they can still transfer me, right?"

He stopped kissing her and frowned. "Transfer you? To where? You just got here"

"Somewhere in York, or near Aberdeen, or somewhere else that isn't here," Clara said. "Wherever they need me to be a stop for the children is where I agreed to go, and who knows how long that will be here. I never had much as far as future plans anyways, which is why I signed up to leave London in the first place. I have risks _now_ —every day I'm here I fit in less and less and that only makes it more difficult for the kids I already have here when it comes to finding them places to stay and getting help from the community with taking care of them. Even in the long term… I don't know how many kids I'm going to get and for how much longer. I could be doing this for years, until there's not a single child in London, putting everything on hold for them." John rested his chin on her shoulder.

"What were your plans before?"

Clara chewed her bottom lip in thought. "I was always going to be a teacher, so I guess if there had been no war I'd still be in London… teaching… being there for the kids. Eventually I knew I'd find a husband and settle down and have a family, but that sort of peace just isn't within my grasp right now." She glanced over at him, their faces nearly close enough to touch. "What did you plan on?"

"Illustrating my books," he said. John curved his arm around Clara's waist, hugging her gently from behind. "If I met someone, then I met someone. If not, there are schools to endow my things to. At this point, if not you, I do have a favorite coworker I could leave my film reels and first editions…"

"Collette's your favorite if only because she doesn't have a mean bone in her body," Clara smirked. She shook her head, halfway to bemused. "Everyone else seems quick to mention the couple million maiden aunts in your generation."

"Many of whom were either too desperate for their own good or turned to their fellow maidens for comfort, let me assure you," he muttered. "Don't think that because there was a surplus of women after the war I was swimming in them. How would you feel if your intended left and never came back, but another man tried to slide into his place? I'd rather die alone than do that to some poor wreck."

"Glad to know I'm not a wreck." Clara turned her head and softly bumped her forehead into John's. "I don't understand why they say you're bad for me."

"…because they think I'm not normal. Didn't you have an old man living by himself in an empty old house in your neighborhood growing up?"

"Mr. Blake," she answered, "but he was mean and nasty and hated everyone. You're too kind to be Mr. Blake."

"No, I am definitely Mr. Blake."

"Mr. Blake never had a girlfriend."

"That's because Mr. Blake never found her, or she died, or she married another man. I was the Mr. Blake of Wissforn Road, or at least I was becoming him, because people think solitude means hatred." John removed his arm from Clara's waist and laid back down. "I stopped being social long ago. The best I do these days is catch-up over the pint I originally went into the pub for—no one had luck shoving me off on their sisters, so I'm no longer worth anyone's time."

Clara paused and placed her hand on John's chest. "You're worth my time," she insisted softly. John took her hand in his as she leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips, noticing he was starting to drift off. "Long-term or short… I think you're worth it."

"Thanks," he murmured, his eyes hazy. "Got your key?"

"Yeah; I'll lock up. Dinner tomorrow? Your turn to cook."

"You mean my turn to heat up a tin of beans."

"See you then, John. I love you."

"I love you too."

The words rumbled out of John's throat, low and soft, as he slipped further towards sleep. Drawing up the duvet so that it covered him properly, Clara left a kiss on his forehead before she stood and made her way towards the door. Even if it was just for the present, both of them felt _alive_ , and nothing could change that.


	9. 16 April 1940

Collette was _angry_.

Her older two coworkers were at a loss when the chipper and down-right jovial young woman came sulking into work. Neither had ever seen her so much as sniffle at a jammed finger, yet now she was enveloped in a cloud of gloom that did not seem to want to go away. She had already come into work the day before cranky, which seemed like simply a rare off day, yet that now appeared to not be the case as she nursed Day Two of her foul mood. It had taken over her movements, making her sluggish and irritable, until Verity finally snapped sometime mid-morning.

"Okay, what's going on?" she hissed. "You're not like this, Collette. What's bothering you?"

Collette leaned into her rivet gun with a bit more force than necessary as she worked on a cabin wall before grumbling "My dad."

"What's your dad done? Are you okay?" John asked. Collette shrugged, ignoring the look of concern that had spread across his face.

"We had a row the other night, is all. He said I should quit."

"Quit what? Working here?" Verity blinked. She and John looked at one another in confusion.

"Yeah. He says I'm not making anything of myself here. He says I'm better than this, and if it were up to him he'd send me to Canada to live with his sister."

"What's wrong with living with your auntie?" John wondered. Collette put down the rivet gun and rummaged for her water flask.

"M' auntie wouldn't let me do anything—ancient nuns had more freedom than I would there. All of Canada and I doubt I'd be allowed off the front stoop. I'd be set up with someone and that would be it."

"Well now, I'm sure your auntie's not that bad…" Verity reasoned.

"You never met her." Collette folded her arms and scowled, though it came off as more of a pout than anything. "I just want to live, you know? I want the things that girls are supposed to want: a husband and a home and kids, but I want to find them on my terms. Mucking around, worrying about the consequences of this and that… I don't want to take up oil painting and lock myself away until I marry a man that was met for me. I'm fine, even if my dad is worried."

"Well if he wants you to take up painting, I still have some stuff lying around," John offered with a smirk. Collette genuinely smiled, though shook her head.

"I'd rather live in the moment than not at all," she said. "To me, building something useful like this ship… now that's living, even if I can't sign all the panels like I would a painting. I don't care what my dad thinks. It's just a good thing my dad and I work for different companies or he'd be all over my case while on shift."

"Is that so?" John chuckled. He hammered a rivet down and something Clara had said the night before popped into the forefront of his thoughts.

_We don't have the luxury of living for the future_.

John paused before moving on to the next rivet. He had rarely thought about the future the previous who-knew-how-many years, yet as of late he had been thinking about it with alarming frequency. It was not as though he had _wanted_ to think about it—the future in wartime was always uncertain—yet it kept on being brought to his attention. This job, his new girlfriend, the renewed lift in his step… they all reminded him in some way that there was going to be life after the newsreels dropped their somber, yet optimistic, news from the front lines. There was going to be a day when Africa would be won and someone will have surrendered on the European continent and leaders deposed and whatnot. He wished the ship they were currently laying down would be part of the conquering fleet, though there was also a nagging feeling in his gut telling him that it was still early , and that wars weren't often won overnight.

Wars took time, yes. They took weeks, months, and even whole _years_ out of people's lives. As John returned to flattening the rivet caps, he thought about Clara. She was currently younger than he had been when he was thrown into a woolen uniform and dumped into a mud-filled trench. Sure she wasn't going off to the front lines, but she knew what was out there. She might not have back when they first met, as her view had been as skewed as anyone's, yet as they got to know one another he found underneath her surface a soul already worn and tried and incredibly empathetic to a soldier's trials. He knew that if she too was dressed up in the right kit and sent to languish day in and day out for years on-end, she would at least know what she was in for. That gave her an advantage, a subtle one, yet it made all the difference.

Nothing was in their future, truth be told—few things were barely in their lives _now_. They were addicted to one another, spending restless nights up together in their refusal to give up the other, which turned into "emergency watches" according to Clara's landlady and entire shifts were Verity refused to speak to him on grounds of common decency. They had become very close rather quickly (John was fully ready to admit), and their spontaneity was mostly over whether or not they would stay up cuddling and talking and sketching and working, or if they would take up residence in his bedroom, where they would swear on one another's names and whisper oaths of devotion in the afterglow. Even without the looming threats of war and transfers, the two of them were so very different that it was difficult to see a future beyond the weekend anyways.

Yes, they were very different. He was tall and lanky and awkward in his own skin, working a job he tried his entire life to avoid. She was tiny and take-charge and insistently confident in her abilities, tirelessly throwing herself into her duty to the children she helped usher from London. They should have clashed; there was nothing that had driven them together other than a beer and a brass band and a bloody war that could just as easily drive them apart. Lots of people met thanks to pints in a pub to end up dancing the night away. Hell, even more people met due to wars. So really… why them? With each rivet he concentrated harder and by the time the lunch whistle blew he had made up his mind.

He had to know.

As the yard became a scramble of people rushing to go home or get their packed lunches, John weaved in and out of the crowd until he found the foreman. "Hey! Will!"

"Oh, what's going on John?"

"I have to ask you a favor, mate to mate," John said, lowering his voice so that only Will could hear. "I need to take half the day off."

"What, _now_?" Will marveled. "This isn't like you, John. What's the matter?"

"I need to go talk to my girl, and I need to do so right now. If you let me go I am going to come into work tomorrow morning either the happiest I've ever been or the most hung over. Please, be a pal." He raised his eyebrows, pleading.

Will looked at John and groaned. "Alright, fine. Go, and don't come back tomorrow either. No matter what you're not going to be in any shape to do anything until Thursday, so just enjoy it." John clapped his hands on Will's shoulders, ecstatic.

"Thank you!"

"This is just because I've known you forever, alright? Now don't get too carried away; you're about twenty-five years late on this."

"Noted."

* * *

Clara sat at her desk, marking the spelling papers her students had just turned in. The children were now reading to themselves from their primers. Everything was very quiet, making the knock at the door all the louder.

"Come in," Clara said, not looking up from the test she was marking. She heard the door open and close, followed by a pair of heavy boots walking over towards the desk. The children began to whisper, their tones hushed and excited and confused, signaling it was not the normally-booted caretaker. She glanced up and froze as she saw John approaching, coming to a stop behind the desk so he nearly towered over her. He must have come straight off a shift, as he still wore his coveralls (the top half tied around his waist) and was absolutely filthy.

"Clara, can I speak with you for a moment?" John asked. He was breathless, as if he had run all the way there, betraying the hopeful grin plastered across his face.

"Is everything okay? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Everything's wonderful. I just…" John leaned down and whispered quietly into her ear. "I just wanted to ask if you fancy getting married later today."

Clara's eyes went wide as she felt blood rush to her face. She glanced over at her kids quickly—some had gone back to reading but most were still staring at them—and then back at John. "Just like that?" she whispered quickly. "You're in no state to get married."

"I'm going to go home, shower, put on my best jumper, grab Mam and Dad's rings, and if we leave right after school we can catch the next bus into Glasgow and register there before the offices close."

She leaned back in her chair and brought a hand up to her mouth, trying to shield her shock from the students. "Oh God, you mean it…"

John crouched down further, bending on a knee and taking Clara's other hand in his behind the desk. "I know you said you'd rather wait until after the war to do something for the future, but what if there isn't an after the war for us? What if bombers come tonight and mistake my street for the river? What if a pulley accidentally snaps and I get crushed by sheet metal? What if they raise the National Service age and call me to the battlefield again? I want to go on to the next life knowing I took a chance for myself at least once in this one."

Clara bit her lip and paused, breath shallow, her eyes glassy. She inhaled deeply before whispering a raspy "Be there at the front door promptly or I never want to see you again." John grinned and gave her a quick kiss on the lips before hopping to his feet and walking out the door.

"Miss Oswald, isn't that your manfriend? What did he want?" one of the children asked, holding up a hand. Clara shook her head and cleared her throat.

"That is none of your business. Now if you excuse me, your tests are marked. Barbara, can you please pass these back for me? I need to ask Miss Macintyre something."

* * *

Sure enough, John was waiting there at the gate to the school when Clara got off work. He had showered and indeed found his best jumper to wear and even had dug out cologne from some dark recess of his wardrobe. His hair was still wet and the lopsided grin from earlier had yet to fade. He greeted Clara with nothing more than a kiss before walking off towards the bus stop arm-in-arm. Once on the bus they sat down together on a bench seat towards the back, quietly holding hands and staring off into nothingness.

The ride wasn't a long one, but as they got closer and closer to their stop John began to shake. What was he doing? Skipping work? Running off to get married? Marrying a young girl who he should be respectful towards while trying to find a suitable match out of his younger coworkers? Really, she was just a girl, not that long an adult, and he had no right. She was the same age as Will's daughter, who was married and expecting her second child with a husband only a few years her elder. His playmates from primary school were all becoming granddads from their children Clara's age. What was _wrong_ with him?

Sensing that John was becoming nervous, Clara lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. She then held his hand, completely enveloped by both of her own, in her lap and rested her head on his shoulder. John's breathing slowed as his nerves faded away; that's right… she accepted. Clara would have never accepted his proposal if she did not want to. She was there with him because she loved him, and that made John feel all the better.

Once they were down at the registrar everything seemed to happen as if in a daze. The only thing that wasn't was the brief argument they had over Clara's surname, which he insisted she keep and she insisted she change. It wasn't even much of an argument, but more volleys of insistence thrown back and forth left temporarily undecided that finally ended when Clara signed her name at the bottom with the surname Smith. She didn't care that she was going to carry a name that wasn't her own for decades after he was gone—one unit did not operate under two names, she reasoned, and she'd rather it be his.

By the time the offices were closed John and Clara were wearing his parents' wedding bands, now _their_ wedding bands, and the world had not yet seemed to catch up to them. They went out to a nice dinner, paid for by a handful of John's savings that had not gone to the paperwork fee. The rest of the evening was spent walking around, stumbling across the park they had visited in February. Clara insisted John sketch her again, particularly after he found flowers near the base of a tree and weaved them in her hair. They rode the late bus back while twitching and grinning and barely containing their excitement for their first night together as husband and wife.

The next morning a very naked John woke up with Clara curled on top of him as she cried into his chest. She was in trouble, she knew she was. She had gone and gotten married without even telling her father she had been dating. Now there would be no church ceremony, she couldn't wear her mother's dress, there would be no reception, and her father couldn't give her away at the altar. The details she had always kept in the back of her mind, details that did not hinge on who she married and when, were now permanent fantasy. John wrapped his arms around her bare frame and tried to comfort her with soft kisses and whispered declarations of love. Neither of their thoughts of the future would come true now, he reminded her, as he had spent the past fifteen years wondering how long he would sit rotting after dying alone in his grandparents' house. They had lived for the moment and in such troubled times; no one should blame them for that… most of all themselves.


	10. The Next Day

Belinda Hendricks was _sure_ she was imagining the entire thing.

"You _what_ …?" she asked, baffled. John Smith—quirky and strange and a good match for no one—stood there in her sitting room and shrugged almost guiltily.

"I married her, Belinda. What else can I say?"

"What else can you say?! John, you married a _child_."

"No, I married a _woman_. It would be different if she were one of the local lasses who I've watched grow up, but Clara is not one of them. I've only known her as a woman and nothing else."

"Do you have _any_ shame?"

"When it comes to my wife? No. Come on Belinda, I'd think you'd be happy that you get the chance to collect double rent on a room for half a month."

"Why…? I don't understand John…" she hissed, exasperated. "Out of _all_ the women who you could have courted after coming home from war, you had to wait until the next one to actually get around to marriage. There's a long list of men I could have expected this behavior from, who were likely to marry and remarry in the same age range despite their own, and half a year ago you weren't even on it. This is only going to give you a bad reputation as a filthy pervert."

"At least I will have a reputation knowing I have a loving wife to go home to at the end of the day." He let a grin creep across his face, satisfied yet sharply acidic. "What do you have, Belinda? You and I never hit it off, so what other options did you end up with? Boarders? Young, nubile boarders? That sounds a lot more suspicious if you ask me."

Just as Belinda was about to shout back with all the rage and fury she could muster, Clara Oswald, now Clara Smith, came down the stairs with her suitcases packed. She came up to the older woman and gave her a hug.

"Thank you, for everything," she said. "Please, don't be a stranger. You're welcome over anytime."

"W-why thank you, Clara," Belinda stammered, taken aback at her former boarder's genuine offer. She tried to not be rigid while returning the hug. "The same goes for you."

"I'm glad. Ready, John?" Clara said. The newlyweds then bickered shortly over who was going to carry the suitcases (they ended up splitting), and they walked out. Belinda watched them make their way down the pavement and out of sight.

She didn't see it lasting longer than the war.

* * *

Clara could feel the stares of the neighbors as she and John walked down Wissforn Road with their arms linked and a suitcase each.

She tried to ignore it, she really did. Clara was not ashamed of her choice, nor would she be pressured into being ashamed. She would be living here for a long time yet, possibly forever if that was in their future, and she was not about to start it off in hiding. Her back stiffened, however, as she felt the unseen eyes of mothers-at-home and the elderly boring progressively into her, just as they did when they had left to gather her things earlier. Now, as they were returning, it was clear that it was something much more complicated than simply oversleeping after yet another night of lustful sin. The looks were just as judging, but of a different sort from before. It all put Clara on-edge.

"I thought cold feet usually happened before the wedding," John chuckled, leaning down and lowering his voice so that only she heard. "Relax. They're just curious, is all. This isn't exactly something any of them expected to see."

"A wife moving in with her husband?"

" _My_ wife, no."

Clara rested her head on John's shoulder as they continued to walk along. Yes, she was now a wife… something she wasn't that time yesterday. She was married to the man people tried to set up with old maids and widows, looking very suspect in the process.

At least, she knew, that they couldn't claim it was money she was after, or that marriage was the only option to escape an abusive home life, or that she was, Heaven forbid, pregnant. They had no choice but to consider the fact that they loved each other and were willing to stick it out and live their lives together, in the open and for all to see. She unhooked her arm from John's as they approached the gate to his—no, _their_ —house and took the other suitcase while he fumbled with his keys.

"Did your landlady finally have enough of your antics?" snorted Mrs. Rigby as she leaned over the low garden wall from her chair. She clutched her paperback firmly, marking her place with her index finger. "You better watch yourself, John, or you're going to have to marry the poor girl before too long."

"Good thing I took care of that yesterday then," John smirked. Mrs. Rigby raised her eyebrows in confusion, her expression changing to shock as she watched John wave sarcastically at her with his left hand… a hand that now wore a golden wedding band. She dropped her book in the grass and gawked.

"How… what…?"

"Looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of one another, Mrs. Rigby! Talk to you later," Clara smiled. She walked in the door, which John was holding open for her, and almost threw her suitcases down in the foyer in irritation.

"Oh, come on now…" John sighed as he closed the door behind them. "You have to admit, her face was priceless."

"Yes, it was, but this is going to get very old very quickly if this keeps up."

John rolled his eyes and placed his hands on Clara's waist, leaning down to rest his chin atop her head. "They'll have their fun and before long someone elsewhere is going to distract them with a surprise baby or a new car too expensive for the neighborhood and we'll be old news. I think it's sort of exciting being scandalous for once."

"At least now everyone will know we're married by lunchtime and we won't need to tell anyone," Clara frowned. John just nipped at her ear and grinned devilishly.

"I bet we can get in another go before half the neighborhood knows," he murmured. "Actually, let's be _knackered_ by the time my coworkers get home for supper."

Clara scoffed in feigned upset. "What? Don't think I can hold out for longer than that? You don't even know the _meaning_ of knackered."

"Teach me?" John asked, his brow raised in jest. Clara brought a hand up to his face and guided him down to her, leaning into a kiss.

"Lesson One: bring your wife to bed," she whispered huskily. John bent down further and easily lifted her into the air. He kissed her again as he carefully made his way towards and up the stairs—didn't want to fail the first lesson, after all.

* * *

"Miss Oswald, where were you yesterday?"

Clara stopped writing on the chalkboard and turned around to face her class. Sure enough, she saw the little hand that had shot up in the back of the room. The school day had only started ten minutes prior and it was already shaping up to be awkward.

"That is none of your business Michael, and please call me 'Mrs. Smith' from now on."

"…but you're not married," the little boy protested.

"Oh, my husband would beg to differ," Clara smiled.

"If you're married, then why do you have a manfriend?" one of the other students asked, using the term they had coined for Mr. Smith. Clara looked away, holding back a snicker, before turning back to the chalk board.

"No way! You got married yesterday?! To your manfriend?!" another student gasped. Clara smiled at the chalkboard and kept on writing. Her lack of argument sent the class into an uproar. She finished writing her sentence and turned back around to face the class, keeping her face stern.

"I will only take questions from good children who do their coursework and don't bother the teacher with gossip in the middle of class," she said, raising her voice above the children's. The class settled down and quietly raised their hands. "Yes…?"

"Does this mean you're not going to come stay with us at night anymore?"

"I will still stay with you at night and teach during the day; my husband doesn't want me to turn back on my obligations to you children just because I am now married."

"Are you gonna live here forever now?"

"Forever is a long time, but, I can see myself living in Clydebank for more than a few years yet."

"Isn't he old?"

"Only on his birth record." Clara sighed; she better cut this off soon, before things got out of hand. "Okay, one more question and then work."

"Are you going to have a baby?"

Clara blushed and tried not to look frazzled. "No… I don't plan on it… not in the near future, anyway. That's enough for now; open your books to page 212, please."

The class responded with a groan. Why didn't they get to know anything exciting?

* * *

"John? What happened to you the other day?" Verity asked. "You just sort of disappeared after lunch. That's not like you."

John grinned broadly at his coworker, adding an eyebrow twitch for emphasis. "I will have you know that you are looking at a changed man."

"Yeah, and it's kind of creepy. Where did you go?"

"Glasgow," John smirked. He pulled on the semi-fine chain around his neck, bringing it and his wedding ring out of his jumper. Verity opened her mouth, closed it, bit her lip, and tried to figure out how to scold him.

" _That's_ where you were!" Collette gasped as she came over to the lockers. "Oh, wow, how romantic!" John put the ring back underneath his jumper and chuckled.

"Well, you can say I've been worse over a two-day period," he said. Collette giggled at that, though Verity simply frowned.

"I can't believe you, going and marrying some young English girl who wasn't even planning on staying longer than she needed to be!" Verity snapped. She kept her voice low, as to not make a scene. "John, she is younger than Collette."

"By a year."

"She is _younger_ than _Collette_."

"…and what's wrong with Mrs. Smith being younger than me?"

Verity sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. For being dead middle between her coworkers, she sometimes sure felt as if she were still at home with her kids.

"Collette, John is old enough to be your father."

"So…? Mam and Dad tell me love takes all shapes."

"Yes, but… you don't understand."

"I know what you're saying," John interrupted. "Let me tell you Verity: I would not have married Clara if I did not mean it from the bottom of my heart. Since meeting her, I've felt like a different person. _She's_ the one I've been waiting for, not someone else's widow like everyone keeps telling me."

"…and how do you know you're the one _she's_ been waiting for? Have you thought she just might be in it for your royalty checks and war-pensioner's stipend?"

"I actually have to physically go to the publisher with a new story if I want regular royalties out of my books because, well, 'John Smith' isn't exactly a unique name, and call me a pensioner again and, oh, I'll make you wish you swallowed those words." He grinned again, flashing his teeth so that Verity cringed and leaned backwards in an attempt to physically distance herself from him. It was then that one of their coworkers came over, a bemused look on his face.

"Ver, what's Johnny done now?" he chuckled, leaning an elbow on John's shoulder. The older man turned his head towards the newcomer.

"I got married the other day, and _somebody_ doesn't seem to want to accept it," John smirked. The other man's face fell as he stood upright.

"…wait a second… not that English girl you were seeing, right? Please tell me it wasn't the tiny English girl."

"Who else would it be, Steve?" John asked. He pulled the chain out of his jumper again and left it to hang against the fabric. "I love her, so I married her. I'm a bit late to the game but I know how it works."

"Obviously you don't…" Steve said, looking rather uncomfortable as he stared at John's wedding band. "John, she's not marrying material…"

"What do you mean 'she's not marrying material'? I married her!"

"You don't marry a _fling_ , John."

"She's not a _fling_. Steve, you and the other guys were cheering me on just a while ago… not you too…"

"It was funny at first, because you with that stupid love-struck look on your face is genuinely hilarious, but it got less funny the more often you came in chewed up like a bit of gristle," Steve frowned. "I hate to say it, but you just went and turned a side-piece into your main squeeze and there's something not right with that."

"See? It's not just me," Verity scoffed. "Took you long enough Steve, but glad you're finally seeing things my way."

With that Verity and Steve both walked away, the former dragging Collette along with her in case John got any more "bright ideas". John leaned into the metal lockers and sighed as he was left alone. Others passed him and performed double-takes, taking note of his ring and whispering to themselves to spare him the embarrassment. Eventually Will came over and blinked in surprise.

"What happened to being the happiest you've ever been?" he laughed. John shrugged.

"You know Clara's not a fling, right?"

Will paused for a moment before tapping his wrist. "What I do know is that shift starts in four minutes and you're nowhere near your station; hop to it or you might get bit by the top brass." He held out a hand, which John took and allowed a pull forward that took his weight off the lockers. They walked out to the floor together and went straight to work; there was still a ship to build, after all.

* * *

"Clara? May I please have a word with you?"

"Huh? Sure," Clara replied. It was lunchtime, leaving her alone as the kids were downstairs in the cafeteria. She looked over at Miss Macintyre, the school headmistress, as she walked into the room and sat down on one of the desks. She didn't look too thrilled.

"What's this I hear from the kids about you no longer being Clara _Oswald_?"

Busted. "I was a bit later than I had expected coming into work this morning, or else you would have been the first to know…"

"Clara, when you said the other day that you needed yesterday off last-minute, I honestly thought it was for your other job for the kids. I didn't think it was because you wanted to get married to the town's artisan bachelor."

"I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression, but it was very moment's notice…"

"This time two days ago you weren't even engaged. Are you _sure_ this is what you want to do with your life?"

"I look forward to the day people stop asking me that," Clara sighed. "You, my old landlady, John's neighbors… no one over the age of ten seems to be happy for us and it's like listening to a busted record."

"That's because none of us really understand what you see in him."

"I know that, but I'd think it's obvious that I brought out something in him no one else has before. He's kind, and sensitive, and thinks the world of me, and have you seen him lately? He's a _dish_ ," Clara blushed in embarrassment.

"It's been my experience that John Smith has only been as kind and sensitive as you say for roughly four months and even then it seems to be exclusively around you," Miss Macintyre said, trying to ignore the last part of Clara's statement. "He can oftentimes be very rude and callous, even if he does write books for children… or at least so he claims."

"It's true; I've seen his work," Clara replied. She let her shoulders go stiff as she adjusted her posture and sat on the very edge of her seat. "Tuesday afternoon I married an artist currently being useful in a shipyard and there is an age gap between us. I am aware of how it might look, but considering I didn't go into this marriage either pregnant or sending my beloved off to the front lines I think I did alright in the long-run."

"Clara, he was the town bachelor… didn't you once think that there might have been a reason for that?"

"…because I hadn't been awarded my Higher School Certificate yet?"

Miss Macintyre frowned at the joke. "Clara, be reasonable… or at least don't claim you weren't thoroughly warned about this."

"I think I've been warned enough," Clara said. "Still… you haven't seen him with that jumper off…"

"He's a weedy, pasty old man."

"A weedy, pasty old man who has been at a job where he's been working out all day for the past seven months—he is actually incredibly fit for his age." Clara smiled as Miss Macintyre tried to hold in a grimace—that was something she had not wanted to know. "Is that all, Miss Macintyre?"

"For now, I guess. Congratulations, Mrs. Smith. I hope your marriage outlasts anyone and everyone's expectations."

"Thank you."


	11. June 1940

John looked at the box in his hand and frowned, squinting at the tiny writing on the sides. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and tried adjusting how far away he held the box to see if that would help any. It didn't, prompting him to put the box down on the sink and grumble as he left the bathroom in search of his eyeglasses. It was unusually cool for early evening, making him shiver as he wandered around in just his trousers and vest.

Clara was out for the night, as it was her turn to watch over the children at the school. He was going to go up to visit later with some sandwiches and tea and thwart her boredom with couch-cuddling and chatting until the wee hours of the morning. In the meantime, however, he had decided to make good use of the time without his wife around to test something he would rather not let her know about yet.

After work, John had stopped by the store and picked up some brown hair dye. It looked close enough to his natural hair, he imagined, and the similarities prompted him to try dyeing his hair in secret before letting Clara know he was doing it. He did not have a lot of grey in his hair, which convinced him that now was the time to try. If he had to mess with the process, now was actually the ideal time since at first glance most people would have no idea. Better sooner than later, while the visual age gap between him and his wife was at its minimum. As soon as his hair turned, which would be within a few years if he remembered his parents' experiences, there would only be more problems for them cropping up and the last thing John wanted was for there to be problems. He loved Clara and if he could avoid making her the focus of stares, then the least he could do was put a bit of false color in his hair.

After finding his eyeglasses sitting in his studio, John put them on and went back to the bathroom. He held up the box again and grinned—clarity at last. Some of the words were complicated, the sort he had not needed to use, let alone think about, since art school and earlier, making him read over the box slowly. He blinked, sighing. This was the sort of thing that most of his coworkers would have gotten angry over, or confused, but he knew that it was simply about making sure people didn't go about things all scattershot. If he remembered correctly from the days of mixing indigo and henna by hand back in school, it was easy to go about hair color all wrong and suddenly end up with something bright red or tinged green when all you were looking for was an inky shade of black.

The box said that for best results John would have to bleach his hair. He didn't want to change his whole color, just the stubborn ones that were beginning to multiply. Those were bleached enough, in his opinion. John opened the box and took out the tin with the paste-like dye and a little paintbrush, which he assumed was for application. After gathering some dye on the brush, he ran the paste through his hair and sat on the toilet lid again as he waited for it to set.

Minutes passed slowly, tediously, with John bouncing his leg as he waited until finally he ran his hair underneath the shower head again to wash off the excess paste. He used one of his old paint towels to dry his hair, in case there was a little loose color left, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Too wet to tell still.

Shrugging, John went about finishing preparations to go down to the primary school. He threw on a clean shirt and socks and fried up some Spam for sandwiches. After everything was packed in his bag and tea made, he slipped into his shoes and walked out the door, catching his reflection in the foyer mirror. Still wet, but looking better. He flicked his eyebrows and smirked; so far so good and everything was going swimmingly.

It was nearing sundown by the time John arrived at the school. He nodded to the caretaker as the man was on his way out to go home, the two men sharing silent acknowledgement. John made his way up to Clara's classroom and chuckled to himself as he held back, watching his wife as she commanded her charges down for the night. He waited until the children were all settled in their bedding before he silently walked in through the open door, catching Clara's eye as he did so.

' _Office_ ,' she mouthed, giving him a smile. John smiled back and complied. He went into Clara's small office and shut the door behind him as to not further risk catching the kids' attention. Just after the sandwiches and tea had been laid out Clara slid in to join him.

"How's it going?" he whispered as she closed the door behind her. Clara came up to him and landed a quick kiss on his lips and a grab of his rear end that made him twitch in surprise.

"You know how they are," she replied in a hushed tone. "The sun is still up, so _they_ need to be up. I swear I'm going to strangle one of them eventually."

"You don't mean that," John chuckled as he sat down in his wife's desk chair. She perched herself in his lap and they began to eat their dinner.

"So how was work?" Clara asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

"The usual. There's talk of a union strike again, which is silly. It's silly on both sides when you get down to it."

"I thought there was talk of that every two weeks."

"Precisely," John shrugged. He turned his head and looked at Clara, who was smiling at him. A little bit of salad cream had escaped the sandwich and gotten on the corner of her mouth, which he licked off with a little kiss. She trembled slightly, making him chuckle. "I'm not going to pretend I understand the whole thing, but no one's going to take talks of strikes seriously if you talk about them all the time and then never do anything."

"Agreed," Clara nodded. She put down the remainder of her sandwich next to her tea cup and leaned into John, kissing him gently. Once his sandwich was down, John was able to return the affection, slowly massaging her hips—an act which Clara took that as the go-ahead to run her fingers through his hair as she leaned further into him. They were not keen on going overboard, not while feet-and-a-wall away from the children, but they both had come to the conclusion that most, if not all, of the children had walked in on their parents at least kissing and cuddling, making such activities free of guilt while on babysitting duty.

…or at least it would have been had Clara not put her hands to John's hair and felt _slime_.

"Ugh, gross…" she hissed, breaking the kiss and pulling back. Clara looked down at her hands and frowned—they were covered in something brown and slick. She smelled it cautiously, making sure it wasn't machinery oil. It wasn't, prompting her to look up into her husband's wide and fearful eyes with her own critical ones. "John…?"

"Yeah…?" He swallowed hard and leaned backwards in a failed attempt to escape her glare, eyes darting around the room.

"What is this?"

"Nothing; I guess I didn't wash good enough."

"No John, this isn't what usually gets in your hair at work. What is this?"

John sighed and stared at the plumes of steam rising up from their cups of tea. His face went red as he muttered under his breath. "I… I thought I'd try out some hair color."

"I'm sorry?"

"I thought I'd try out some hair dye, while there's not much need, so I know what to do later."

Clara squinted as she looked in the dim lamplight at John's hair. It _was_ a different color, but only a very slight difference. She used the back of her wrist to tilt the lampshade and use the extra light to confirm and sighed.

"Go home, John," Clara said plainly. "No, actually, wait until I go wash this stuff from my hands and _then_ go home and wash up until all that gunk is out of your hair."

"Clara, I…"

"No, John." She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. "Now promise me you're not going to do this again."

John grumbled, a jumble of exasperation and worry. "…then what happens when I do go grey? It's not exactly something in the far future for me anymore."

"Go grey," Clara ordered. She touched the tips of their noses together so that they had no choice but to stare into one another's eyes. "Don't you even think about hiding yourself, John Smith. If my husband goes grey after a couple years of marriage, then he's going to flaunt it and not hide underneath dyes. I'd like to think that he's losing the color in his hair due to all the excitement that's now in his life than anything else."

John arched his eyebrows and chuckled. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure; I married you knowing that could happen, now didn't I?" She shook her head and exhaled quietly, softening her tone. "I'm fine with it, as you should be. Now open the door for me, please, so I don't get this stuff on the knob."

"As you wish," John sighed. Clara slid off his lap so he could stand up and open the door for her, bowing so that he was eye level with her as she glared him down on the way out. A few minutes later she returned with her palms scrubbed raw and free of the dye. She smacked John's backside as he left, only half-playful, and watched as he disappeared into the hallway.

Men and their midlife crises were weird.


	12. August 1940

It was a lazy, sticky, Saturday afternoon as Clara and John stretched out on the sitting room couch together, snuggled close. They were both uncomfortably warm but didn't mind; it had been a rare Saturday alone and that meant that they were going to enjoy themselves even if the weather wasn't perfect.

A creak of metal and the fluttering sound of paper broke the silence in the house. John grunted—a low and guttural noise that rumbled in his chest and through Clara's body.

"Could you please get that?" he asked.

"Why? Can't you get it?"

"You're the one lying on top of me, dearest." John kissed the top of Clara head as she rolled off of him and shuffled over towards the door. Afternoon post had arrived, though it was only one letter. Clara opened it and curled back up on John as she took out the contents.

"I wonder what Dad wants," she mused. John closed his eyes and mushed his face into the couch backrest.

"Maybe he needed to let off some steam about something or other," came his muffled reply. "That is most of what he writes about, correct?"

"Yeah… I guess you're right," Clara smiled. She began to read over the letter and the expression on her face began to drop. The further on she read, the more distraught she became and eventually sat straight up to read. Out-right panic settled on her face, seeping into her voice as she let out a weak "Oh no…"

"What's the matter?" John asked. He too sat up as soon as Clara stood and began pacing the room. "Is something wrong? Is your dad okay?"

"His company is moving him to America for half a year starting the week before he was scheduled to visit us," Clara frowned. "In fact… he's asking if he can move coming up here by a whole month in case they need to send him out last-minute." John watched as his wife bounced around the room in her panic, becoming increasingly more and more distraught by the second.

"He can come tonight if he wants," he shrugged. As she passed, John reached out and latched onto her wrist before pulling her towards him and securing her in his lap. "It's not like we've got very much to do considering how spotless you like the place." This was true, as once Clara had become mistress of the house she had packed all the spare paintings away and reduced their home's clutter to a minimum.

"No, John, you don't understand, I need to _prepare_ ," Clara insisted. She gently unwrapped his arms from around her waist and began to walk around the room again, muttering to herself.

"Prepare? Prepare what…?" John asked. He waited for an answer, yet got none as Clara was too heavily concentrating on her own thought process. John stood and took her gently by the shoulders, bending down to look her in the eyes. "What do you need to prepare, Clara?"

A flicker of worry flashed across Clara's face before she spoke. "It's personal, John."

"Personal…?" John blinked. "I thought your personal was my personal now and vice versa. I thought we were supposed to be a unit." His shoulders hunched as he peered into her eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. "Clara… you're not… ashamed of me, are you?"

Instead of replying with words, Clara bit her lower lip and sighed up at her husband—that was all the response he needed. John let go of her and slowly spun around. His eyes began to water as he took a few steps away, but he held it together.

"John, I'm…"

"You're _what_ , Clara?" he replied sharply, turning around to face her again. "Trying to figure out how to tell your dad about me? I thought you did!"

"Well, yeah, in letters, but…"

"…but what? _But_ **_what_** , Clara?" John began to pace the room himself, able to cross it quicker thanks to his longer stride. "Oh my… I knew it."

"Knew what…?"

"…that at the first sign of someone not _my_ neighbors, not _my_ mates, not from _my_ life, threatening to come and see us, you'd panic in shame. Admit it: you don't want anyone finding out about me, do you?"

"That's not true!" Clara gasped, insulted. "I _love you_ , John; I wouldn't have married you otherwise."

"Then what's all this about needing to prepare and that it's a personal issue you can't talk to me about?" he snapped. "Don't even try to tell me you haven't been avoiding going down to visit your father during summer holiday, because we could have gone on multiple weekends already and you know it."

"I'll have you know that my father is a very busy man, as are you," she fired back. "Have you forgotten this is the first week you haven't been on over sixty hours since we got married? Don't tell me you can just take weekends off as you please."

"I would if it meant to meet someone from your life who is important to you," John insisted. "I know _no one_ from your life before Clydebank; here I was thinking I was going to meet your dad in a couple months and although it'll be incredibly awkward, yes, I'll finally be a real part of your family…"

"…and what about my dad is incredibly awkward?" She folded her arms and shifted the weight on her hips, sending her husband into an acidic scoff.

"Oh, maybe the 'Hello there; sorry I look more like brother-in-law material but yes you're right I'm three years your elder and yet sleeping with your _daughter'_ part of it all? This has never exactly been slated for a normal husband-father meeting."

Clara tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "What, _you're_ ashamed of _me_ now?"

"No! But come on Clara… even you have to admit that eloping in the middle of the week without me even meeting your dad looks sketchy."

"Now we're _sketchy_?"

"We're not sketchy!"

"Then what are we?"

"Oh no, don't you turn this around and get away from the question—why are you so nervous about me meeting anyone from your life?" His arms swung around as he gesticulated, as if their movement would help convey his emotions. "You shouldn't need to _prepare_ if there's nothing wrong. Blimey… I should've seen this coming…"

"Should have seen what coming? Your insecurities turning you into a total arse?"

"No, my wife showing that she really isn't the mature and accepting woman I thought she was. You are such a child…"

"I am NOT a child!"

They stood there glaring at one another from across the sitting room. Clara's hands were balled into fists while John's sat on his hips to take a rest from wildly gesturing. Both of them were shaking from nerves—someone was about to crack.

"If I'm a child," Clara said, slowly and deliberately, "then you're nothing more than a _filthy_ old man."

John snorted derisively. "Yeah, and I didn't even need kids for you to nanny as a pretense for coming hungry and lustful into my bed."

"Excuse me…?" she gasped, her jaw dropping in disbelief at words she never thought she'd hear. Well, she always knew they were coming, but not from the man she married. "Exactly _what_ are you insinuating here, John?"

He rolled his eyes and let his arm fall to his side before going to leave the room, muttering under his breath. "…I can't believe… married… opportunist…"

"What was that?!" Clara snapped. She followed John into the hall, finding him halfway up the stairs. "What did you just call me?!"

"Listen, Clara," John groaned as he turned around. "If you just wanted sex we could have left it at sex without needing to play pretend-house. It's the twentieth century and there's a war that's taken all the pretty young men… I highly doubt I'm in a place to judge you for that…"

"…but I don't _want_ a pretty young man! I want someone who I can love and trust… who will be supportive of me when I'm down on my luck!" Clara curled her upper lip into a sneer as John rolled his eyes.

"Well then, it's good to know my kids will likely inherit a flair for theatrics on top of your very English habit of taking over Scottish households for personal benefit."

"What…?" Clara breathed, her eyes going wide. She stood there stunned for a moment before choking out "Kids…?"

"You work in a primary school; I've never known a woman to work in a primary school without wanting children herself." He shrugged sourly, not sure whether he should be confused as well. "I thought you wanted to be a mam."

Clara inhaled sharply and steeled herself. "John, there is a _war_ going on and you're thinking about having _kids_?! _Without talking to me_ _about it first_?! I'm the one who would have to do all the work in that, you know!"

"…and I figured you'd tell me you were ready after we've had the house to ourselves for a little while. Considering how long it took me to find you, what's a few more months? A year? Don't think I'm cruel, Clara."

"I don't think you're cruel… but I do think you're being incredibly arrogant," Clara said coldly. She paused momentarily to regain her composure while staring her husband down. "You have to look at me, at us, at the big picture, before you can go spouting off things like that. I _do_ want someone who can be the father of my children and I thought it was you… but now I don't know anymore."

"Well then maybe you should've thought more about that on the bus into Glasgow," John mocked. He turned back around and resumed climbing the stairs. "I'm going to take a nap."

"Then I'm leaving," Clara replied. She put on her shoes as the door upstairs slammed shut. The front door may or may not have slammed behind her as well, but she did not care. Clara walked all the way over to the school, where it was empty and desolate due to summer and the kids hosted from London being out on a trip. She stormed through the halls until she found her office. Flopping down on the couch, she finally let out a jagged sob as she curled up in a ball.

' _What have I done…?_ ' she thought. ' _Maybe… maybe everyone was right. He is rude and callous, and I was just blind to it before now_.'

Clara felt like her head was stuffed with cotton as she laid on the couch and cried in the privacy the tiny space allowed. It was becoming difficult to think, with thoughts screaming and compounding in her mind.

' _They warned me. Everyone warned me. Bachelors at his age are usually bachelors for a reason, but I was too naïve to see it._

' _He's arrogant and thinks he's cleverer than he really is; all those times when he was talking about art and films and anything else remotely interesting was him just showing off._ ' A shiver ran down her spine and she groped for a couch cushion, clutching it tightly. ' _He's just been trying to impress me so I'll stay like a good girl and keep house and have babies for him just like any other bloody man I've dated longer than two weeks_.'

Clara sat back up and tried to bring her breathing back to normal. She wasn't going to let him get the best of her, not now, not ever. ' _Even if I did just throw my life away, I am going to make it work to my advantage. Arrogance can be reasoned with; five-foot-one and crying—he won't even have the chance to have the last laugh…_ '

Setting aside the cushion, she drew her knees up and pulled them close against her chest. Tears tried to flow anew, but she let her head fall forward and let her brow and kneecaps softly bump against one another. She was going to survive this.


	13. A Few Hours Later

When John woke up from his nap he immediately noticed three things. The first was that it was dark outside his window. The second was that he felt terrible, with sore eyes and a raw throat and a stomach that lurched half of nerves and half of emptiness. The third, but most important thing, was that his arm was extended forward as if to wrap around a small and dainty body that was definitely not lying in bed with him. It was instead around a pillow, which was definitely a poor substitute if he could think of one.

' _Who are we kidding?_ ' John sighed to himself. ' _We were never supposed to work. The only ones who couldn't see it was us._ ' He tossed the pillow aside and got up, intent on finding something to eat. The house was quiet as he shuffled through it; the only sounds that reached him were the creak of the floorboards and the heavy tock-tock-tock of the grandfather clock. Had it always been this quiet? The icebox only yielded ingredients for larger ventures, a change from the ready-to-eat nature of his diet not even eight months prior. John groaned and closed the appliance.

The house was his… most of the house was undoubtedly his from the furniture in the rooms down to the deed he inherited. If it was his, and only his, then why did everything remind him of Clara? She had not lived there for very long, truth be told, yet looking around only reminded him of how empty the house was without her.

' _I've been an arse_ ,' John thought as he looked around the front sitting room, dark and bare. He scratched his cheek, bringing his hand down to rub his neck. ' _Clara's no opportunist, nor is she looking for an easy life. She married me knowing what she was getting—a shipbuilder's son who paints pictures and pretends he's not the town oddball. For Pete's sake…_ '

John quickly walked into the foyer, where he threw on his shoes, grabbed his cap, and walked out the door. It was still overly warm and humid outside, which facilitated enough excuse as to why he skipped throwing a shirt on over his vest. He walked down the pavement and let his feet take him to the primary school. Once there he entered the building and made sure to make as little noise as possible so as to not disrupt whichever classroom had the children in it that night. He found Clara's room and saw that the light was on in her office, bringing him to knock on the door lightly after tossing his hat on the desk.

"Clara?" John asked, his voice hoarse and quiet. He heard quick movements from inside and the sound of something heavy scraping against the tile floor.

"What do you want?" Clara snapped. Her words wounded John, sounding too acidic and accusatory for the woman he married. He gently placed his hand on the wooden barrier before him and set his jaw, preparing for the worst.

"I… I came to apologize," he murmured into the door. He swallowed hard, his mouth drying out at an alarming rate. "No matter what the argument is, no one should _ever_ talk to you like that… your husband least of all. I was wrong and I'm sorry and I… we need to talk. May I please come in? To talk?"

The heavy sound groaned again and the door creaked open just enough for John to see a sliver of Clara's face. It was red and puffy from crying, as well as higher than it should have been. She was kneeling on a short metal cabinet, one he personally knew to be heavy enough to barricade the door, which drove his situation home even further.

She was protecting herself _from him_.

"Promise me," Clara demanded. Her voice had a coldly practiced feel to it despite the slightly jagged edge to her voice. "Promise me _now_."

"I promise I came with every intention of talking, or may my mam, who taught me better, haunt me 'till my dying day," John replied sadly. He took his hand off the door and stepped back a pace, watching his wife debate her next move.

She slammed the door shut.

John's face twitched as he stood in place, not knowing what to do. He extended his arm forward cautiously and hesitated. There was little he wanted to do other than force the door open and grab on to Clara, holding her against his chest tightly until she listened to what he had to say, but that would have been so many steps backwards from what an apology _should_ be that his stomach churned.

That was it—she didn't want to talk. At least, she didn't want to talk now. It was too soon. That was fine, of course. John brought his arm back down to his side and turned to leave. He would let Clara be and come back in the morning. Yeah, the morning. She had to sleep it off too, and sometimes it took younger people longer to reconfigure their emotions. He was almost at the classroom door when he heard the metal cabinet in Clara's office scrape again and the lock unlatch.

"Where do you think you're going?" Clara asked. John looked over his shoulder to see her standing in the entry to her office, the door wide open and a long-handled caretaker's brush in-hands She held the broom with the bristles forward and her stance askew.

"I was…" John started. His wife's glare became harder as she took a step forward.

"You said you were here to talk. Now talk," she said. Her husband fully faced her and put his hands up in surrender.

"Can we go in your office? Please?" His face fell when she didn't answer. "The children aren't that far down the corridor and sounds travel further in the night. It's just talk."

Clara's eyes flit over him and towards the opened hallway door. A moment passed and she stepped aside, tapping the end of the broomstick on the ground and allowing John entry.

"Any sort of funny business and we're _through_ , you hear me?" she hissed. John nodded and entered the office, immediately sitting down on the far end of the couch. He folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees as he looked at the floor; the scratches left on the tile by the cabinet were close to _gouges_.

Clara shut the door behind her and engaged the latch. "Well?" She rested the broom up against the wall and sat down in her desk chair. "I'm waiting."

"You were right, Clara," John said, looking over at her sheepishly. "I am a filthy old man and you don't deserve to be spoken to that way. I'm lucky you married me, let alone allowed me in here to talk."

"Damn straight you are," Clara replied. She sat there with her arms folded and legs crossed, glare intensely cutting into John. "At least you realize it now, yeah? How long did it take? Not even four months?"

"I'm sorry if you think I pressured you into marrying me too quickly—you deserve better than that," he admitted.

"Is that why you wanted me to keep my maiden name? So I wouldn't have to change back to it after we realize what a right cock-up this has been?"

"No," John gasped. "Clara, I…" He made to stand and she immediately grabbed the broom handle. She pointed it at him until he was fully seated again.

"Don't. Move," Clara snapped. "I will use this and not for its intended purpose, I swear to God."

"Why are you so afraid of me?" he asked, his voice strained. "I don't… I don't control you. I don't get cross when the queue at the shop keeps you out late, and I love that you still take care of the children from London, even if it means we don't always get to sleep together. I don't beat you or swear at you or belittle you and more than half the time you're the one initiating things in the bedroom. Please, I don't understand…"

"You assume," she said sharply. "Men that assume are just as dangerous as the men that beat their wives and call them whores. I've run into too many men that assume, John Smith, and I am not about to bow to anyone's assumptions."

John licked his lips tentatively and pressed his back into the armrest. "What assumptions?"

"That I will be a good little girl and do as I am told," she hissed. "There are enough men that look at me assuming that I'm a wedding band away from becoming a blushing bedwarmer—that I'll pump out their babies and cook their meals and clean their house and be their tiny little plaything when the lights are out. Men that assume are far from saints, because once things deviate from their plans they transform into arrogant taskmasters. They become the only people that matter, and everyone else become so tiny and insignificant… their wives included."

"The only reason I assumed _anything_ is because I am _old_ ," he said. John swallowed hard in an attempt to keep his voice level. "I know we hate how everyone points it out, but there's not ten or fifteen years between us… there's _twenty-eight_. It's not fair on you to wait so long we risk my body giving out before any kids we have are grown. I want you to be able to be a mother, not a nurse."

"Do not give me that crock, John; you and I both known that you are in excellent shape," Clara frowned. "You never even talked to me about this."

"I didn't think we had to." John's shoulders fell as his thoughts went back to their wedding day. "I told you when we were filling out the paperwork to keep your name because I'm not going to be around as long as you. I _will_ make you a young widow, no matter how insistent we are to the contrary. My dad, my mam, her brother… they all died in their seventies after having been sick for a long time. I'm almost fifty, Clara. I don't feel it, I don't look it, but I am. There's a good chance I'll be gone before _you're_ fifty and I want to get in what we can with the time given to us."

"If this was such a fear of yours, why didn't you say something earlier?" Clara asked harshly. "You could have mentioned this even in passing long before now, letting me know you had a role picked out for me before it was too late."

"Okay, I admit, we should have had a nicer version of this conversation long ago, back when we were dating, because this right here is no way to discuss our future together. I can't define your role in this marriage—only you can—but it shouldn't hinge on what other men have expected of you in the past."

John watched Clara carefully as she stared at him, sizing up him and his words. She began to look around the room, trying to find something to visually latch on to, before settling on somewhere beyond his knee.

"Bananas."

"P-Pardon…?"

"Bananas, John," she replied. Her voice was still as hard as it was before, though her face became drawn and sad. "I have students that think bananas are imaginary."

"But what do bananas have to do with anything?" he asked. "We went years without seeing certain fruits during the First World War…"

"…and what kind of a world was that?" Clara scoffed. She snapped her gaze up to meet her husband's. He flinched, unsure of precisely what she was saying or how she was saying it. "You said it was bleak, desolate, that you couldn't see the end. If we have children, they will be the light of our lives, and why would you want to bring those precious little things into a world ready and willing to snuff them out? I'm not going to have a nursery with black-out curtains if I can help it."

"This is the first I've heard of this," John said. "You should have said that was a concern…"

" _Opportunists_ don't reveal their plans to anyone, didn't you know?" Clara slouched in her chair and looked away from John, her voice softening to an unhappy whisper. "I thought you knew me."

"If I could take back those words Clara, I would," he insisted. "I was wrong— _very wrong_ —in saying them, and they only came out because for a moment I _didn't_ know who you were and I was scared. That shouldn't be an excuse, but it is, and if you feel we should rethink this, then I understand." John sat all the way back on the couch and groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "Let's just go home and, if it's what you want, I'll sleep in the guest room for the time being until we can go back into town and file for a divorce."

"No."

John glanced back at Clara, confused. "I'm sorry…?"

"I don't want a divorce," she clarified. Clara stared at the frosted glass windows of her office with dead eyes, barely blinking in an eerie sort of way. "I just want you to understand. You, of all people, would understand."

Although grateful for the change in tone, John blinked at its existence. "Understand what…?"

Clara sat silent, trying to put together her words. A few moments passed before she quietly continued.

"When you went to art school, what did your father say?"

John mused on that for a while. It had been so long ago now that he had to grope around in his memory. It wasn't a happy recollection, actually one full of pain and regret and lots and lots of shouting. He could still see his caring dad turning into his distant father, with his brown-green eyes unnaturally cold and weathered face gone rigid in disapproval; the memory was one best left forgotten.

"We… fought."

"He thought you were being reckless and irresponsible, right? Your father saw what you knew in your heart was the right choice and thought you were throwing your life away. He still loved you until the day he died, but he never again pretended to understand you. Am I right?"

She was, actually. John up until then had said very little about his parents. There was not much to say about them without being melancholy and needing to raise a glass to two people long dead. Sons of shipbuilders became shipbuilders, or machinists, or some man in a sweatshop working so endlessly that he became a piece of factory equipment himself. Art school was a foreign place to their kind, a place that should stay foreign according to his father. Clara's description was so accurate, down to his father's dying days, that it was eerie given the lack of details she had been privy to. He extended his arm towards her in a silent plea for company and frowned in realization.

"You don't want that to happen with you and your dad, do you?"

Clara propelled the chair with her feet and crossed the tiny bit of room so that she sat directly in front of John. She did not take his hand, instead clutching tightly to either side of the chair cushion. "In a lot of ways, my dad's the only one I've got left," she said softly, avoiding eye contact. "It was a lot to get him to not come up here when I signed up to help usher the kids to safety… I just don't want him to think he was wrong to let me go off on my own. I'd marry you again in a heartbeat John, but that doesn't mean my dad will approve of and accept my decision."

"Oh Clara… Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara…" John brought his arm forward, reaching to brush the hair away from her face. She flinched slightly, causing him to pause before actually carrying out the motion. "I've seen dads and their daughters, and he just wants what's best for you."

"I know he does, but will he see what I see? That it's you?"

"He will see a man who married his daughter without permission, nothing more." He knelt down in front of her and continued to groom her hair by hand, combing and smoothing to tame it out of its frazzled state. "I'm sorry. I should have known I'd cause problems for you when it comes to your dad, just like any proper son-in-law should."

"…and my dad, like any proper dad, is liable to get really upset about a major decision his child made without consulting him," Clara sighed. "I try to keep him informed about what's going on in my life, but all this just happened so quickly it didn't hit me until the morning after we got married."

"At least there are worse things in the world," John replied, allowing a smile more morose than anything spread across his face. He leaned down and placed his head on her lap, the top of his head flush against her torso and his arms wrapping loosely around her calves. "I want you to be able to talk to me if there's something bothering you, because that's what I'm here for."

"Like my dad…" Clara paused for a moment, unclenching her hands from the chair and slowly playing with the hair on the back of his head. "…and you being a dad…"

"I never thought about the war and kids that way, and the way you put it gives me some perspective." John turned his face and pressed his nose between her legs, muffling his voice. "It's not unreasonable, but… just… the thought of not being able to help you raise any kids we have because of my age… that's… that's…"

"None of that," Clara shushed, gently lifting his head and placing a finger on his lips. She trailed her fingertip slowly towards his chin and studied his eyes. "You're going to be a first-rate dad one day—I'll see to it."

"…but say the war lasts four years, like the last one. Four years from now I'll be in my fifties. Ten years from now I'll be nearly in my _sixties_ and…" John trailed off, looking away from his wife in embarrassment before continuing. " _Fathering_ children isn't the same as _being_ a father to children, and you never know how long you've got."

"Your dad died in his seventies, but what did he do for a living?" Clara asked. She turned John's face towards hers again. "Go on, tell me."

"He had Will's job; he was the ship-floor's foreman. Before that he welded, riveted, did just about anything they needed him to do."

"How long did he work at the shipyards?"

John thought for a moment, bringing his arms up and leaning them on the chair. "A long time. He was there years and years before I was born and retired some time during the end of the war. I came home and… there he was, broken and old."

"He worked a hard job with long hours for decades; you've been there not yet a year. All the time before that you weren't wearing down your body, tearing it up so Queen and King can have their Navy. I have no problem imagining you can stay healthy long enough to help me raise our children, even if it takes ten, fifteen, years for the war to end." Clara bent down and lightly, almost chastely, kissed John's lips. "Even out of the young and able-bodied not every father can kick a ball or carry the weight of a sleeping ten-year-old," she reasoned, resting her brow on his.

"…but I can _now_ …"

"I know it's a worry you have, and that's fine, but I'd just rather our children not know war and want like my students do." She pressed their foreheads together a bit tighter, as if trying to merge their thoughts. "Things can change, but as of right now that's where I stand."

After letting the words sink in, he brought a hand up to Clara's face and gingerly scraped a thumb across her cheekbone. "I suppose you would know how that would affect a child better than me, wouldn't you?"

"That's… that's not all…" Clara frowned. "Now the war's actually _begun_. Don't tell me that you think that the dogfights in the Channel are going to stay in the Channel."

"They could, but we don't know that," John said. He leaned back and sat on his folded legs, guiding Clara to slide off her chair and straddle his lap. "That's why your students are coming up here and going to Wales and any other bit of countryside they can find: in case they _do_ start flying over England with bombs."

"…and once they do, it's only a matter of time before I start to get war orphans amongst my charges," Clara said, her voice cracking. She put her arms around John and pressed her face into his chest, attempting to compose herself, before shuddering. "As far away from the action as we are, we're still not safe. You work in a shipyard—don't pretend like that's not a giant target—and once they're bored with London, the Luftwaffe could very easily come here. We could be bombed while I'm with child, I could give birth in a shelter, the child could die, I could die… _our child_ could easily be a war orphan. He or she would grow up looking at my dad, asking what we were like because they weren't old enough to remember us… and that's assuming my dad can take care of them. Think of what it would be like if one of us had to raise a child by ourselves… watching them grow, alone…"

John closed his eyes and chewed his lips as Clara stopped. Her body tensed and curled against his, terrified of her own thoughts. She had thought this through thoroughly, there was no doubt about that, and she had a point. As much as he could defend the looming issue of his age, he had to be alive above all else. As a war widow Clara could recover and remarry easily enough, but a war widow with a child to care for was another. He didn't want to think about losing her either, even if he still had a child to raise—a child that would be partly hers, perhaps with her round face or dimples or charming smile. It would hurt to look at their child if Clara herself was not there besides him, more than he could ever imagine, and pained him to think about it _now_. He gently tightened his grip on his wife, kissing the top of her head.

"I don't want to seem like I'm overreacting," Clara whispered, "but it's just that…"

"Shhh, none of that," John murmured, cutting her off. "I didn't even think about that—why would I wonder what it's like to lose you after I've _just_ found you? We can wait until after the war to start planning for children, if you still want them by then. I haven't even met your father and I can't imagine saddling him with a wee babe because we were too reckless."

"So… you understand…?" she asked, voice muffled by his chest. "You get where I'm coming from when it comes to my dad and our kids? You're not angry or disappointed or any of that?"

"I understand fully—this isn't you pouting or putting off something you don't want to do, but you doing what little planning you can in a time when you really can't." He rubbed his unshaven cheek on her smooth one, invoking a soft chuckle. "I love you Clara, my clever wife."

He held on to her as he stood up and sat back down on the couch. With one hand keeping her hair from their faces and the other braced along her waist, he kissed the tip of her nose to test the waters before diving in and taking her lips. She shuddered, though not out of disgust, and let loose a tiny squeak of a laugh.

"Wait, I thought I said no funny business," she giggled.

"You were also going to beat me with a brush. Still want to?"

"No. Let's just… promise."

Locking his eyes with his wife's, John spoke solemnly as he said, "I swear that if it is important, I will talk with you. I never want you to be afraid of me ever again."

"…and I will talk to you," Clara agreed. She disentangled herself from John and sat further down on the couch, grinning back at him. "Now come on; if you're going to act a proper husband from now on, you might as well get off on the right foot. Be my husband. Prove that my filthy old man can still deliver."

John flashed his teeth and lunged at Clara, trying to hold back and not knock her flat against the cushions. They kissed as he squeezed himself onto the couch, protectively surrounding her as she reached up and slid his braces off his shoulders and undid his trouser fastenings. Tears of relief streamed down their faces as they gasped and swore, their want for one another having far from faded.

The tiny office, already too warm to truly be comfortable, very quickly felt close to suffocating as the couple began to shed what few layers they had on. Before long they were down to their undergarments, and even then their tears mixed with sweat borne from weather and movement. It was difficult to stay quiet, particularly with John repeatedly knocking the back of his head on a shelf out of pure reflex. He eventually buried his face in her chest to muffle his moans, something Clara took care of by taking a deep breath and turning her face towards the couch cushion.

Their first fight had been rough, there was no doubt about that, but at least the resolution seemed to be a good one. The only thing to shatter the haze they found themselves in afterwards, where John was slowly dressing Clara as he laid kisses up and down her body, was the sound of a student entering the main of the classroom to search for a misplaced teddy. They froze, John in his pants and lips pressed to a garter high on her inner thigh, Clara sporting a single stocking and knickers, and waited until the child left. One mad, wordless, rush to clothe themselves later and the Smiths snuck out of the building; whatever the children, and the teacher watching over them, didn't know, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's worth noting that I've always kind of had this image in my head where John's dad is the AU's version of the War Doctor and Idris is his mom and it makes my heart hurt just a little bit.


	14. September 1940

Kids poured out of the school building as Dave Oswald stood awkwardly, rocking on his heels impatiently. His suitcase sat next to him, signaling to the children that he was a visitor from out of town and not just a man from a different neighborhood than them. A few minutes passed and finally his daughter came out to greet him with a kiss on the cheek and a large hug.

"Oh, it's good to see you again, Dad," Clara smiled. "I'm sorry I wasn't available to pick you up from the station. Did you find the school okay?"

"I found it just fine," Dave chuckled. He picked up his suitcase and began to walk with his daughter as they made their way back to her home. "I'm more interested in how you're doing. You move up here to work and instead you get married…"

"Being married hasn't stopped me from working," Clara explained. "John wants me to be able to do what I love, wife or not."

"Is it money?" he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. "Do you need the money? If you do, you know…"

"No, Dad, we don't need money," Clara sighed. She was already beginning to regret the weekend ahead. "Our house has been in John's family for generations and he has a steady job and a small bit of savings from before the war that we occasionally add to. We're not well-off by any means, but we're fine."

"Alright," Dave shrugged. "I guess I'm just a bit worried about you. Married after four months—though I've seen quicker weddings brought on by war and trouble—it simply has me concerned."

"We're happy though."

"I know you are, and that's why I'm not cross." Dave smiled as they walked down Wissforn Road, taking in his surroundings carefully. "This does look like a lovely place for my grandchildren to grow up."

"Dad, stop it," Clara laughed. "I think you're likely to see a Nazi before a grandkid as long as this war keeps up."

"Well that doesn't exactly leave a man hopeful," Dave deadpanned as they walked up to the house. Clara let him in and showed him up to the guestroom that had been prepared earlier that morning… or, at least, she tried to, as Dave kept on wandering around curiously.

"Dad, come on, the guest room's this way," Clara sighed as he poked his head in the sitting room. She had to gently pull her father along by the arm in order for him to start climbing the stairs.

"This was in John's family?" he wondered aloud. "It looks old, but rather well-kept."

"His gran's granddad built the whole street; they used to do rather well for themselves, but the last bit of that legacy remaining is the house," Clara explained. "A couple of the neighbors are convinced otherwise, but that's because not many of them make the effort to understand John. The inheritance made living cheap, at least."

"You married into money?"

"No, married into _former_ money. Dad, he builds ships for Heaven's sake… and not because he designs them or oversees construction or handles funds." They were now at the door to the guest room, which Clara opened and entered before he so she could let in some air from the windows. "John's just as normal as you and me—don't forget that."

"Alright…" Dave said as he put his suitcase down at the foot of the bed. He watched his daughter as she left the room, only more curious about the man he was there to meet.

Once downstairs again they sat in the front room having tea as they waited for John to come home. Despite their idle small talk—the weather, Dave's train ride, how things were back at home—Clara became progressively antsier as the regular time for her husband to come home edged closer and closer. Eventually, her nervousness came crashing down on her as she heard the door open and heavy boots walk through the foyer.

"Clara? I'm home."

"John," she called out, her voice weaker than normal. "My dad's train got here on time. We're in the front room having some late tea."

"Coming." John kicked off his boots and walked into the sitting room, swallowing hard in uneasiness. Dave quirked an eyebrow at the man that now stood before him; a worn face with grey beginning to dust his brown hair was not exactly what he had been expecting based on his daughter's letters. Dirt and grease and sweat he had been, but not the beginnings of jowls and age lines. He was tall too, a good head taller than he was, and skinny… _Christ_ , was he skinny for a working man.

"So Dad, this is John," Clara smiled nervously. "John, meet my dad."

"Uh, how do you do?" John asked, extending his hand towards Dave. The other man stood and shook it, trying not to focus on his filthy vest and toned arms that looked like they could knock him out in a brawl in no-time flat.

"You're my daughter's…?"

"Husband, aye. Sorry I'm not exactly looking like I should be entertaining—they had me oiling machinery today at the yard."

"Clara did say something about you building ships now. What did you do before the war…?"

"I illustrated children's books, painted pictures, that sort of thing," John smiled. "Excuse me, but let me just wash up quick and change into something cleaner before we get too carried away." With that he disappeared into the hallway and the dumbstruck Dave sat back down on the couch.

"That's your husband…?" he asked. Clara nodded in affirmation, but kept her eyes on her teacup. "Clara, he looks older than me."

"By three years, yeah."

"…and he really is an artist building ships. Here I thought you were exaggerating something because all the young men I know that didn't make the cut to get shipped out are out-right embarrassed and ashamed."

"He is a bit self-conscious about being too old for service anymore, but he fought in the Great War and there's no shame in that," Clara said quickly. Her eyes darted up towards her father, but quickly found her tea again. "We do what we can, Dad, and that's what matters."

"Then neither of you needed to be married for whatever reason? There's no secret gold stash and he's not some under the radar laird ensuring his inheritance or none of that going on?" Dave saw in his daughter's eyes that her veneer was beginning to crack, that her sense of control was fading, as she put her teacup down on the table. He took hold of one of her hands and she snapped her head up, meeting his gaze. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't disapprove a little bit, because you're worth no less than a landed lord in my eyes and that's what all fathers are like. If you're happy, then that's great. Love does crazy things, and love in war is even crazier, but I need some time to understand is all."

"Mum would've liked him." A statement, not an accusation.

"Your mum liked everyone."

Clara laughed at that. "That's beside the point. He's a good man."

"…and I expect nothing less. I'll settle for a good man, landed or not."

"Dad…" Clara groaned. She leaned back into the armchair in a sense of irritation nearly cosmic in scale. No matter what, this was still her dad.

"Does anyone else want more tea?" John called from the kitchen. At this Clara perked up, grabbing her teacup and downing the remainder in one go.

"Yes, please!" she replied. John came in with the teapot moments later and refilled her cup. He was wearing clean trousers and an actual shirt, which he had rolled the sleeves up past the elbows. After giving Clara a quick peck, he turned to Dave.

"More?"

"Of course." Dave held out his cup and John filled it, albeit shakily. He left again, to return with his own steaming mug which he sipped while sitting on the arm of Clara's chair. Dave laughed, "I came all the way up here to meet you, John. There's room enough on the couch next to me."

"O-Okay…" John stammered. He walked around the coffee table and sat down next to his father-in-law, a man that really could have been his younger brother. Nervously he fiddled with his wedding band, freshly moved from the chain it hung on while at work to his hand. It sat a little loose on his finger; he was eventually going to have to bite the bullet soon and get it resized, as his father's fingers had been thicker with muscle than his were.

"So, you used to illustrate children's books?" Dave mentioned to break the silence that settled between them. "Got any kids yourself? Nieces and nephews?"

"Ach, no. I just like telling stories, you know?" He waved around his mug between sips of tea, dangerously close to spilling mid-gesture. "Barely anyone around here believes that I'm the one who wrote their children's books. To them I'm just an old bachelor who had a stroke of luck earlier in the year, nothing more."

"Never had kids, never been married?"

"No. You remember how crazy it got after armistice—some of us were too full of life for our own good and just happy to be alive. Besides, I came back home to find all the good girls shacked up with strapping lads bred for factory floors and the ones leftover either had turned too cold or too warm for my tastes."

"So you waited."

There was a pause, one large enough for the ticking of the clock on the wall to begin to dig in with each passing second.

"I gave up." John looked at Dave and gave him a small smile. "That's some daughter you raised. Thank you for sharing her."

Dave hesitated momentarily before clapping a hand on John's shoulder and smiling back. "You're welcome." He glanced over at Clara, who had a look of relief on her face. "Enough of that… tell me how you two met. My memory of what was in the letters is a bit hazy."

"Oh, we met in the pub," John said. "We both had bad days at work and needed to cool off. I went for a second round and found my table occupied and that was that."

"Don't forget your coworkers," Clara grumbled. "Those nosy, disrespectful hooligans ought to be ashamed of themselves and learn some manners. I pity any girl that ends up with them."

"You always did have a high standard. Maybe that's why you went with someone who was already established," Dave shrugged. "Though a pub… that's hardly what I'd call romantic."

"Dad… you and mum met because you almost walked into the road," Clara groaned.

"…and she saved me, so that's more romantic than a lot of people get."

John smirked into his tea, trying with all his might to not burst into laughter.

"What…?" Dave gasped in feigned-insult. "Is my _son_ -in-law not a romantic?" The smirk quickly turned into a choke as tea went up John's nose.

"I… uh… I'm…"

"Hey, relax. Weird for you, but weirder for me." Dave reached into his pocket and produced a kerchief, which he offered to John. "I think that we're both willing to put that aside though. What do you say?"

John took the kerchief and wiped the errant tea off his face. "Yeah," he coughed, clearing his throat out. "I think so." He put the dirtied cloth down on the tea tray. "I'll, uh, wash that for you."

"That's fine," Dave replied. "I actually get them at work; for some reason we just have a stack of them we're allowed to pluck from. Hey, Clara tells me this house was in your family?"

"Y-Yeah. I'm the fifth generation to live here." He looked away from Dave, face going red, and tried to drink some more tea again. "Eventually, once the war's done, we'd like to make it six."

Clara sank back in her chair and watched her father eye her husband. The tension, although not thick per say, could be felt sitting amongst them awkwardly. She counted the seconds she heard off the grandfather clock—ten, eleven, twelve…

"That's natural though, yeah?" Dave finally said. Clara's eyes went wide, shocked at his nonchalant tone. "I mean, Clara's wanted to be a mum ever since she was a little girl. Don't keep me waiting too long though—I'm actually kind of keen on the idea of being a granddad."

"Ugh… Daaa _aaad_ …" Clara whined. She downed the rest of her tea to steel herself as she looked at the two men on the couch. Her father was giving her a cheeky grin, while her husband was, with the straightest face she ever thought possible, wiggling his brow at her suggestively.

It must have been something in their generation, she thought. Yes. That was it. Something in their generation had made both her father and her husband insufferable morons… and a little part of her was glad for it.


	15. Some Hours Later

Later that night, after dinner and staying up talking, Clara bid her dad goodnight as Dave retreated to the guest room. He had started off the visit wary of his mystery son-in-law, but eventually warmed up to the point where the two men were swapping stories about their old schools and regiments, with Dave even sharing stories from when Clara was a child. It made her happy to know that her father was not going to object to her choice, and that their relationship would not be further strained by her new one.

She went into her bedroom and found that her husband was already in bed, stripped down to his underthings and nestled in the blankets. Clara undressed and joined him, soon within a grasp that was exhausted yet adoring.

"You never told me that," she said, breaking the silence between them. John opened his eyes and saw her face directly across from his, so close their noses almost touched.

"Never told you what?"

"What you told my dad earlier… you never told me anything about giving up. What was that about?"

"It's no longer important; let's get some sleep."

"It may not be important _now_ , but it was apparently important _once_. Please tell me."

John rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. "Just as I'm sure you've had boyfriends before, I've had a few girlfriends, way back when. It had just been so long between my last girlfriend—my last real date that wasn't some sort of setup—and you that in the meantime I just sort of stopped operating in that sense. I've always been good at existing alone, so eventually, I figured, there just wasn't anyone out there for me. I accepted it as a fact because nothing else seemed to refute it. Like I said long ago: I was fine with being Wissforn's version of Mr. Blake, complete with a creepy old house and solitary lifestyle."

"That sounds awful," Clara mused as she cuddled up against John's side, resting her head on his shoulder. He shrugged and gently wrapped his arm around her waist.

"It happens, and that's actually what pushed me towards books in the first place. I don't have kids, and most of the ones in the neighborhood know me as the loner old man who thinks himself better than everyone else, but you'd probably be hard-pressed to find a nursery in town without at least one of my books in it. Those are my children, meaning I already have a family whether they realize it or not. I got on without a wife fine, so why worry?"

"And in all that time, there was never a girl you fancied enough to make you court her seriously?" Clara asked. "I never thought I was the first woman to hold that honor."

"Well, you're right in that you're not," John said. He sighed and reached back into his memory, surfacing things he no longer cared for out of disenchantment more than anything else. "Mélanie."

"Excuse me?"

"Her name was Mélanie, and she was French," he elaborated. "I was twenty-six, she was twenty-three, and she lived near where I was stationed for a time. All the guys in my unit thought she was beautiful but cold because she wouldn't give them the time of day. I saw a trilingual goddess translating enemy communications, who grew up studying in Algiers and could talk at length about Moorish Africa and the history there. We almost did get married, but she didn't want to be a war bride and convinced me to wait. Eventually I had to go one way and she another. We corresponded for a while, but it wasn't meant to be."

"Did she not love you the same way?"

"She said she did, and I believe her to this day, but the last letter I got from her said she was going to Alexandria for work and that she'd write for my birthday. When that next letter never came I spent a few months writing to her old address in France and to the university she was supposed to be working at. She just vanished; people sometimes did that, whether they wanted to or not."

"That was it? Just like that?" Clara asked. "She just left you with nothing? Not a word? That's cruel."

"Not entirely...by the time I started writing the letters, I had moved in here. And so, when the responses came in slower, I was able to look around and remind myself that nothing depend on whether or not I'd see Mélanie again. I still had a home of my own, with a bed and food and a place to work - a fact that did not hinge on my missing fiancée, despite what others may think. It's possible for a man to survive without a wife and be perfectly content, so I grieved and… well… moved on." He ran his free hand over his face as he paused, reflecting on the matter. "Looking back, I can see we wouldn't have been happy. I was too stationary for her and she was too… fleeting. I hope she's doing well with her studies, maybe with someone else who can see her as a person that is warm and vibrant. She deserves that at the least."

"That was it until me?"

John chuckled sadly. "No. There were others—a pub run-in here and a match-made date there—but none of them really made me feel like marriage was in my future… not until you blew it all out of the water." He rolled on top of Clara and nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck, making her giggle quietly. "All notions I'd had about giving up, staying the neighborhood bachelor, remaining alone for the rest of my life... none of it was important anymore after I met you."

Hesitating, Clara dipped her nose into John's fluff of hair and asked a question she had been stewing for longer than they had been married. "Before we met, how long had it been?"

"Well," he said, reflecting, "I went dancing in '24 with a woman who the next day pretended to not know me and that's when I stopped looking for good. Sex was longer still; after everyone was home from the war, one of my old uni mates had most of us over during the Christmas holiday and through the first week of '21." John paused and rested his chin on the top of her shoulder. "Oh…"

"Oh…?"

Clara felt him press his face into her neck and frowned, his skin flushing hot with embarrassment. "I just realized I forgot her name. I had a lot of whiskey that visit—my mate was descended from something or other and could afford it. It should say something that I remember the malt better than the girl, but I don't know what other than that I should be ashamed."

"No, probably that you were young and frustrated and drunk for three straight weeks on someone else's tab," she said. She traced her fingertips in lazy circles along her husband's back. "You really didn't know what was going on our first time, did you?"

John lifted himself up onto his elbows and hovered above his wife. "I had a… general idea. After going without for so long, I forgot what I had been missing. It's like when we went to that restaurant in the country and those scones reminded you of your mam's. Everything just came over you all at once and you started crying."

"…which was _very_ embarrassing and thank you for bringing it up," Clara frowned, crinkling her nose. "So I'm like that scone?"

"You're better than that scone, because you didn't remind me of someone else, but instead reminded me of what I can be: a loving husband and, eventually, a doting father. It rushed me almost all at the same time and hasn't stopped since." He then began to kiss her, starting at her mouth and running down her cheek until he was behind her ear.

"…and when, may I ask," she giggled, "did you fall victim to your love-struck urges?"

"I knew there was something there after our second date, even though I tried to convince myself it was only my brain overworking," he admitted, letting himself fall to his side. "I was still nervous despite that. It's okay to be head over heels, but not to be in over your head."

"That sounds like a good philosophy to have." She paused and turned to face the man next to her. "Second date sounds about right though."

"If I could travel back in time and meet myself this time last year, I'd never believe this was real," he murmured. John drew Clara in tightly and closed his eyes, touching their foreheads gently. "You are my miracle of a second chance, and I don't want to ever lose you."

"Not if I can help it," she smirked. Clara brushed her lips against John's lightly, only to exhale heavily. "Let's get some rest. We're taking Dad into town tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, we are, aren't we?" John's voice began to dip into a rumble, distant and full of sleep. "Good night, Clara."

"Good night, John."


	16. November 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally began posting today's new chapters to another fic instead of this one. *headdesks*

Smiling to herself, Clara hurriedly mixed the batter in the bowl. It was Saturday and Saturday meant that John was only going to work half a shift. When he came home today, however, he would arrive to a special treat: her mum's soufflé, once famous throughout all of Blackpool as one of the best a man could get. She had been stealthily saving up the ingredients for it and was prepared to make the afternoon a special one.

Today was his birthday—not as if he had told her or anything. But when she was filling out her information on their marriage license, Clara had taken note of what her jittery bridegroom had written down on his side: _23 November 1891_. John was turning forty-nine and Clara wanted to make a fuss, even if it was just a little one in the grand scheme of things. Better start breaking things in now, at forty-nine, than the following year at fifty. People hardly ever took fifty well, from what she remembered, and considering he did not seem like the kind of person that ever had reason to celebrate his birthday before… well… baby steps seemed like a better option than charging head-first into festivities.

The ramekin was in the oven as the front door opened and a set of heavy boots trudged into the house. "Clara?"

"In the kitchen!" Clara smiled. She put the batter bowl in the sink and began washing it out, only to have a pair of hands land on her hips and kisses begin to appear along her neck.

"What's that I smell?" John asked. His voice was low and rumbling; he was too tired to do much more than stand there thanks to the newly quickened pace he had to adjust to at work. Destroyer-ships did not build themselves, after all, and even less so when behind schedule.

"Your lunch," Clara said. She dried her hands on her apron and turned around to kiss her husband. "You deserve a treat today."

"I'm so beat right now I'm afraid I'd fall asleep in the middle of a treat," John groaned. "Maybe later tonight?"

"I _meant_ something special to eat," Clara laughed. "Now sit down, birthday boy, and let me put together your lunch."

John froze up, his eyes widening and brows rising in sudden alertness. "Who told you?"

"I saw on our marriage license," Clara explained. "Don't be silly; it's your birthday. I would think that your wife is allowed to know about your birthday. You know mine, so it's only right I know yours."

"I don't _like_ my birthday."

"Who does when there's no one to celebrate with? Now sit down before I change my mind and decide we're having porridge."

After studying her face, John cautiously walked across the kitchen and sat down. He felt self-conscious now knowing that Clara was aware of his precise age. He hadn't actively celebrated his birthday in almost twenty years, and he was even less keen on it now than before. It was a number that did not match how he felt (most days at least)—he was _twenty_ -nine as far as he was concerned… well, twenty-nine twenty times over. The number was arbitrary, and they both knew it, but the last thing he needed was for the math to catch up to him.

"Almost ready," Clara sang, putting two plates on the table. John reluctantly took a fork and knife from the canister of utensils sitting on the table and frowned.

"What are we having?" he asked in quiet defeat.

"It's a surprise," Clara smiled, bending down to kiss him on the nose. John blinked at her uneasily.

"You don't have to do this. Birthdays have never been that special to me."

"Just because they never have been doesn't mean they can't ever be." Clara held his hand and patted it gently. "I'm not going to throw you a party or anything like that unless I know you want one, and it's obvious you don't want one now, but what _I_ know is that I want to spoil my husband on his birthday, as any good wife should, even if it's just a little bit."

"You being here is enough," John replied. Clara let go of his hand and ran her fingers along his jawline before turning back to the oven. She opened it and looked inside, only to gasp.

"No! No, no, no, no, no!" Clara cried. She took the ramekin out of the oven and slammed it on the stovetop—the soufflé had fallen and was a little too dark to be considered perfectly done. She quickly paced around the kitchen after kicking the oven door closed, fuming, before disappearing into the adjacent dining room and hiding out of sight.

John tried to lean in his chair in order to see where Clara went. She must've squeezed into just the one corner he could not see from his angle, he thought, before standing up and walking over to the doorway. He found Clara huddled on the floor, wedged between the wall and the grandfather clock.

"Are you okay?"

"No…" Clara muttered. "Just… give me a couple minutes and I'll come up with something else. I'll be fine."

John took a step forward. "…but we can just remake it…"

"No we _can't_ , John. That was the only shot," Clara snapped. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and coughed, clearing her throat. "Stupid oven… I guess I'm just never going to get used to that bleeding thing and how it holds heat compared to my old one. Just… go take your shower."

Without another word, John retreated back into the kitchen and looked at the crispy creation sitting on the stovetop. He tilted his head as he studied the dish—without having ever seen a soufflé before, he was unsure of what it was supposed to look like. The dish seemed edible enough, if a bit squished-looking, and shrugged in acceptance. He bunched up a tea towel and used it to carry the ramekin to the mat on the table. John cut himself a slice and began eating—the crust was a little leathery and the insides a bit creamy, but it was overall not bad. He continued to eat until Clara came back in, her eyes going wide at her husband.

"What are you doing?" she asked, more than a little taken aback.

"Eating lunch."

"…but, it burned and fell!"

"So? Still tastes good," John shrugged. "Did you use actual eggs in this or did you use the reconstituted stuff you've been buying?"

"Uh… real eggs…?" Clara warily sat down across from John and watched him as he ate. "You like it?"

"Yeah. What is this?"

"A soufflé. My mum was really good at them, so it's her recipe."

"I get the notion she was the best baker in Blackpool," John smiled. He shoveled some more food into his mouth and watched as Clara began to let the corners of hers twitch upwards slightly.

"You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it." He paused and glanced across the table at his wife, whose temper seemed to be settling down. "Is… is that why you were upset? Because it's your mam's recipe?"

Clara nodded. "I made them perfectly fine at home, and I thought I could do it in one go after so long, but…"

"Hey, I told you, it's fine. You tried, right? You tried and it still came out fine."

"I _try_ an awful lot, don't I?" Clara deadpanned. "John, I burn one-half of what I make and undercook the other. I should be _good_ at this, don't you think?"

"I don't know… _should_ you?" he asked, putting a look of surprise on her face. "Just because a mam's good at one thing doesn't mean her daughter's good at that exact same thing, or even in the exact same way. I don't find anything wrong with your cooking, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"How would you know?" Clara replied, a bit more caustic than necessary. "I'm _supposed_ to be good at cooking and baking—I've done it enough to be competent in a kitchen… any kitchen except this one. It's really frustrating to not be able to turn out anything right when you know you can. Besides, how would you know about mums and their daughters?"

"I've… seen them before," John said hesitantly. He took another bite of soufflé and turned his eyes down towards the dish. "It works for fathers and sons too… just a bit different."

"I _was_ a good cook, whether I advertised that fact or not," she frowned. " _You_ just didn't want the life your dad wanted you to have because you were better at art."

"Not… exactly," he shrugged. "I tinker… a lot. You haven't seen the boiler break down yet, or the film projector freeze, or me build a frame for my canvases. I've got the mind for a machinist, just not the desire. I could barely sketch a thing my first day of art school."

"…and I'm apparently only allowed to cook one decent meal a month."

"Not from where I stand" John said. He paused, allowing Clara to think. "A good cook doesn't make a good wife, a good person does. Besides, you don't have the time other wives do most days—while you're at work, they're in queues and doing things around their houses. You do some pretty impressive things, you know?" Taking another bite of soufflé, he waved his hand nonchalantly. "If you keep on comparing yourself, you're never going to be happy."

"How do you know that's what I'm doing?" she grumbled.

"Because I did exactly the same thing: my art wasn't as good as the bloke's next to me, I was shit at treating a lady out because I couldn't afford what my mates did, my books weren't as popular as this one or that… it's enough to drive a man insane if the trenches didn't get to him first." John gave Clara a wry smile and took another slice of the soufflé. "It's something you learn how to recognize and come to terms with as you age."

"Then it's a good thing I didn't fall in love with a man still wet behind the ears," she replied dryly.

"One of the many perks of marrying in the over-forty set, my dear." He flicked his eyebrows cheekily and allowed his smile to become a grin. "Go on—take a slice. It's honestly not that bad."

Eyeing John suspiciously, Clara cut herself a slice of the soufflé and placed it on her plate. She took a bit on her fork and jammed it in her mouth. It was already starting to cool, making the texture one that was far from appetizing to her. She tried not to grimace as she placed her fork down and forced herself to swallow.

"What? Come on Clara, it's not that bad…"

"It _is_ , and you either don't know any better or are trying to save face," she hissed. "This is _disgusting_."

"No, it's not."

"And why is that?"

"You made it."

Clara groaned and glared across the table at her husband. "You're an idiot."

"If I'm an idiot, then at least I'll be an idiot that's going to get his fill," John said, his tone a false sort of haughty. He took a third slice of soufflé, leaving nothing left in the ramekin.

"You're going to get sick if you eat that much," she frowned.

"I'd rather fall ill eating my wife's cooking than anything else," he grinned, allowing a glint in his eyes that sent a chill down Clara's spine. "Soufflé… that sounds French, right? French cooking from my lovely wife, in my own home, on my birthday… never thought I'd live to see such a thing."

"It's just a ruined soufflé…"

"Have you met the neighbors? They wouldn't know about anything French even if refugees set up camp right outside their doorstep. Honestly, I'm the luckiest man in the neighborhood; better this than neeps and tatties day in and out."

"That's… swede and potatoes… right…?"

John nodded. "You sure you've been living in Scotland for almost a year?" He swallowed the bit of soufflé that was in his mouth and flashed his teeth. It was now Clara's turn for defeat as she sighed and forced herself to eat another bite of the soufflé.

"You know Clara," John said, "I was thinking about getting a new stove anyways. Granny never did trust gas ovens, so that's just what I'm used to, and many of the neighbors still use their wood and coal stoves even though they ran a gas line under the street back when I was a lad." He took the top of his foot and rubbed it up Clara's calf in an effort to make her smile.

"Were you now?" she replied, her voice flat. "This has nothing to do with me?"

"I was planning on getting it for Christmas, but I think now's a good a time as any to tell you. Maybe you can practice this soufflé thing again for our anniversary?"

"Well, I _had_ been thinking about saving up for a chocolate-raspberry torte instead, but if that's what you want…" Clara started. She giggled as she saw his eyes grow wide and eyebrows arch, questioning whether she was serious or not. Smirking, she hooked her heel around John's foot and trapped his leg between her own. They both chuckled, giving one another flirty glances across the table as they finished their lunch.

It wasn't exactly as how Clara planned it, but John's birthday lunch ended much better than she had feared it would when she took the dish out of the oven. Things weren't perfect, but there was always next year at fifty.


	17. December 1940

John sat in his studio, diligently sketching. It was his first full day off of work for year-end holidays and he was going to use it wisely. Clara stood in the corner on a chair, draped in a bedsheet and wobbling as she posed, pretending she was holding something small up in her hand.

"Are you sure this makes me look like a classical muse?" she asked. John kept on sketching, but not before rubbing his nose and smearing even more graphite on his face.

"Close enough," he replied. "At least, if anything, you're _my_ muse."

"That is very kind of you but I feel ridiculous."

"Don't worry, I'm almost done. Then we can take a break."

"Oh, good. There is a cramp in my foot that is _killing_ me."

"Body parts trying to kill you? You have to be at least in your forties for that to happen, dearest," John smirked. He put down his pencil. "There, done."

Clara groaned as she lowered her hand and slouched. "Thank God. I thought there for a moment that my arm would fall off."

"Not fall off, but it might tingle with bloodrush," John said. He held out his arm towards his wife. "Would you like to see?"

"Sure," Clara shrugged. She pulled the sheet further around her and sat on John's lap to look at the contents of the large sketchbook. There she was alright, looking very much like a statue from antiquity. She rested her head on his shoulder and smiled. "It looks good. Your skill's held up."

"I sketch a lot otherwise, so even if it's not my job anymore I'm still drawing," John said. He wrapped his arm around Clara's waist and kissed the side of her head. "It helps I have such a lovely model."

"Mmhmm, sure it does," Clara murmured. She leaned up to kiss John, forcing him to put down his sketchbook and brush her hair out of their faces with his now-free hand.

"Calm down there, Clara Smith," John laughed. "It's not even lunchtime yet."

"Doesn't change the fact I'm feeling a bit peckish."

"You do have an appetite for being as small as you are." John slid his hands through an opening in the bedsheet, finding Clara's naked body with ease. He felt along her lower back and rear end as she placed more and more of her weight on his torso, forcing him to lean backwards in his chair. John eventually leaned so far back that his head bumped into a table where several inkpots and paint containers lay. "Oi, hey, watch out dear—can't be too careful."

"What, you'd rather have art supplies than your wife?"

"No… I can always have my wife, theoretically. The paints though… they aren't exactly in ready supply these days."

Clara looked down at her husband, too amused to be fully-insulted. "Oh, I see, so that's what marriage is about, hmm? Constant access?"

"No. I don't have constant access to you. Got to unwrap you first."

"Unwrap…?" Clara asked, confused. John leaned in and kissed the crook of her neck, only to jerk back and pull the bedsheet so that it wound tightly around his wife, immobilizing her.

"See? Father Christmas came early and left me a present."

"You are naughty, you know that?"

"Well, it's too late for him to come back and leave me some coal now that we've replaced the stove, so I might as well enjoy myself," John smirked. He stood up and carried Clara out of the studio and into their bedroom. After placing her gently down on the unmade bed, he gave her a moment to free her limbs once again from their linen constraints before he climbed in over her and began to run kisses down her neck and chest. Clara smiled to herself as she tugged at his jumper and yanked the woolen garment over his head.

"…and to think that everyone seems to want to warn me about you."

John stopped his advances and rested his face on Clara's chest, grumbling.

"What? What's wrong?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows. She leaned to one side and began to comb her fingers through his fluffy hair, frowning. "John? Please tell me."

"Are they _still_ doing that?"

"Well, yes… but I…"

Rolling off of her, John laid on his side and faced the vanity. He was too low to see himself in the mirror, but could see Clara's as she sat up and leaned over his shoulder to look at his face.

"Come on, John. Don't be like that."

"How long is it going to take everyone to realize that this isn't wrong, that it's not something of convenience or ill intentions?"

"I don't know… I think it's pretty convenient being able to live in the same house and not have to worry about my landlady harassing us. I can be your wife and you can be my husband and no one can tell us we're improper because we _are_ doing things in the right order."

John felt Clara's chest press into his shoulders as she wrapped an arm around him. "You're nothing like what they say, so really there's nothing to worry about," she continued. "I know better than to believe that you're probably only after me for my looks or because you want to make the other men your age jealous. Those same people are probably also wondering why I'm not as large as a house, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"Why would you be… oh." John blinked slowly at the dark lacquered wood of the vanity; children. He'd been getting questions at work as to when he was going to get around to impregnating his wife and taking off on a late start to fatherhood. With as many times as he had to answer "after the war", he had to hear "that will never last" at least twice over. What was worse were the accusations—that he was only using her to warm his bed as long as she was young and pretty. He had never been that way about a woman, even when he was young and brash and raging drunk, so why in the world would he start that sort of behavior _now_? It was irritating and insulting, though he realistically had no proof as to otherwise.

Clara kissed the side of John's head and hummed, hitting a deep and sultry note. "What did we agree on?"

"…not until after the war."

"No… I meant about people, you blockhead—no wonder no one thought you could rule yourselves."

"Oh." John rolled his eyes, remembering to tuck away some jab at his wife's Englishness for later. "We agreed that anyone who had a problem with us can kindly fuck off."

"That's right… and why is that?"

"…because they don't even believe I illustrate children's books. If they don't believe my chosen career path, then they won't understand my motivation for marrying you."

"Precisely. Now come on and let's get back to sketching. I seem to remember you saying you needed an anatomy refresher a couple hours ago."

John laid there silently, not feeling much of anything anymore. Clara groaned and slid off the bed, taking the sheet with her. After a long silence he followed, only to find her in the studio, linen discarded on the floor, lounging in the chair she had been standing on. She looked up from the book in her hand and gave a smile, sly and coy and inviting all at the same time.

"Took you long enough," she said.

"I should draw a harelip on you for that." John sat down and picked his sketchbook back up, smirking at his wife's irritated expression.

"Don't you _dare_."

"Yes, I think a harelip and a giant swath of warts and oversized feet," he laughed. Clara's face went from irritated to down-right cross as she folded her arms and tapped her foot on the floor—Father Christmas's present was a little more surly than John had previously imagined and he was fine with that.


	18. New Year's Eve 1940

John sat placidly at the bar while he quietly sipped his beer. His ears throbbed with the amount of noise that was buzzing around the pub. A war, it had been decided, was no reason to cancel New Year's celebrations and the house was packed. Clara was… somewhere in the mess of people, likely dancing and imbibing herself. That was fine; he never had been much of a party person, but Clara had wanted to experience the famous rowdy Scottish Hogmanay for herself and was near insistent after the rather quiet Christmas they had.

He was just about to order some pie when the empty barstool next to him became occupied and the newcomer ordered a drink. "A pint please, whatever's popular." John looked over and had to double-take: it was an old school mate, one who he had not seen in years.

"Derek?" he asked. The man turned and chuckled in surprise.

"Johnny? Wow, it _is_ you! How long's it been?"

"Gavin's party, I reckon." John tilted his head and smirked as he attempted to recall their last meeting. "So what are you doing here? I thought you were going to America to paint the tycoons or whatever it is that you had up your sleeve."

"I did, but I eventually got beat out by photographers. Yanks don't know the worth of a good portrait these days," Derek laughed. The bartender put his ordered pint in front of him, which he grabbed, tipped towards John, and took a long drink. "Right now though, I'm just passing through. What about you?"

"Oh, working, existing. You know this is my hometown, right?"

The other man looked at him, one eyebrow arching high. "I remember you saying you lived on the banks of the Clyde, not Clyde _bank_."

"Bit embarrassed back then, I guess, about coming from working stock. I thought I could escape it, but here I am," John shrugged. He took another sip of his beer and chuckled. "I rivet things now."

"Aw, no…" Derek groaned. "Broke or the war?"

"Bit of both, to be honest. Not much money in children's books unless you're writing about rabbits in the Lake District. I'm planning on going back to it after the war, so being at this party while saving's a real treat. My wife doesn't mind much, which I guess is a plus."

"Married? That's nice," Derek nodded. He lifted his glass, only to pause and put it back down again. "Hey, not to judge, but it wasn't that girl from Gavin's shindig, was it? What was her name?"

"No, and your guess is as good as mine, not that I'm proud of that fact," John replied, the tips of his ears going red. He downed the rest of his beer and ordered another. "Actually, the only thing about them that's the same is they're both English. Younger than me, but both very English." He nodded exaggeratedly at the last bit, the red from his ears spreading to his face.

"You always had a weakness for English girls though," Derek chuckled. "Kids?"

"No. You? Did you ever come back and whisk Ingrid from Ceramics away and keep her large with child to repopulate the Highlands like you swore you would or are you still wallowing in bachelorhood?"

"Married Ingrid, but we only have one kid. They're in Seattle, over in America, right now—the place I can say is just about as miserable as this dump when it comes to the weather."

"Dreich that way, eh? That's good to know," John laughed. As he took his new beer from the bartender, Clara nearly stumbled out of the crowd and came up to him from behind, wrapping her arms around him loosely at the shoulders. He did not visibly register the contact while she leaned into him and kissed him down his neck, fairly drunk in her own right. Derek stared, not exactly knowing what to make of what he was seeing.

"So, John… you said your wife's English?" he asked uneasily.

"Oh, yeah, that's why we're here." John drank a little bit and motioned towards the main of the pub, with the crowded dance floor and the band hovering over them on their little dais. "The English… you know they're all so _curious_ about what we Scots do it's sort of sad. She was fine spending Christmas cuddled up on the couch and all, but one whiff of Hogmanay and it's like I told her unicorns exist."

"At least she's willing to… _indulge_ in another culture," Derek said. He tried not to look at the pretty young woman chewing up his old uni mate's neck and tried to figure out how to address it. "So… you and your wife have a good relationship?"

"Of course; we've got our differences, but we try to work on them like anyone. She's real understanding, or at least tries to be. I know every man likes to claim they were lucky in their match, but I'm willing to fight them all for bragging rights."

"So she's _fine_ with everything?"

"Well, not _everything_ …"

"…like…?"

"My birthday, for one; she likes it and I don't. She can't stand whiskey, so I don't really keep any of the stuff around unless it's for a special occasion. Oh, and I had to replace the stove because of her—apparently wood stoves for cooking put you back in the Medieval times or something like that, even if you buy coal for it instead."

"I see," Derek said. He debated for a split second before pointing at Clara and gnawing on his thumbnail. "I just… even back in school I never took you as a ladies man, yet somehow you've become a magnet in the past twenty years."

John took a moment to process his friend's words before nearly spitting out his beer in a laugh. "Oh, no, I'm sorry," he said casually. "Let me introduce you to Clara, my wife. Clara, this is Derek. We used to run together at university."

"Hello; it's a pleasure," Clara smiled. She took one of her hands off John and extended it towards Derek. He shook her hand nervously, his face twitching in confusion.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mrs. Smith."

Clara let her hand drop back down as she placed a kiss behind John's ear and exhaled heavily. "I'm going to go find Collette and then we're going to dance."

"You and me or you and Collette?" John asked. Clara paused, thinking.

"…me and Collette."

"I'm not stopping you." John chuckled as his wife left with a playful snarl, disappearing into the crowd. He turned back to his friend and leaned into the bar. "So where are you headed, since you just say you're passing through?"

"That was your _wife_?!" Derek gasped, wide-eyed and half in-shock.

"Aye, we married in April," John nodded slowly. "She's a real treat, let me tell you. Didn't think it'd happen before her. Good things come if you give them time and she was definitely worth the time. Who did you think she was?"

"To be honest…? I'm not sure."

"We get that a lot; don't fret over it. She's a go-between for Blitz evacuees—that's how we met."

"You house Blitz evacuees?" Derek's jaw sat a bit slack, not sure how to reconcile the man before him with the one he remembered from their youth, now a belligerent ghost compared to the grounded and almost soft-tempered being that shrugged back.

"No, she takes care of the little pudding-brains… _I_ just happened to meet her here after work one day. Hey, listen, you got a place to stay yet? We've got a spare room…"

"Oh, no, I couldn't impose…"

"Nonsense," John said, clapping a hand on Derek's shoulder. "You're an old pal—we'd do the same for anyone. Now tell me about Ingrid. How's she liking America?"

After hours more of talking, drinking, eating, and even some singing and dancing, the sun began to rise and the pub owners started to turn patrons out onto the streets. Derek, honestly having nowhere else to go, accompanied his old school mate and his young wife back to their house, him and John both a bit too drunk for their own good. Clara, on the other hand, seemed to have sobered up slightly over the course of the night, ushering both men home easily.

Once he had emptied his bladder in the downstairs powder room, Derek stumbled back into the hall, looking for where his hosts had gone. He hobbled his way further into the house and up the stairs, only to find his old school mate getting felt up in the middle of the hallway. The couple noticed him and quickly parted, with John disappearing into one room and Clara opening up the door across and up the way.

"Here's the bed," she said pleasantly— _too_ pleasantly for the early hour. Derek entered the room and placed his side-bag down at the foot of the bed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Smith."

"Please, call me Clara."

"Thank you… Clara." Derek stared at her, wondering what was going to happen next. She walked right past him to open a heavy trunk sitting underneath a windowsill. A thick bedspread came out and she covered the blanket already on the bed with it.

"It gets a bit cold in this room," she explained. Clara circled back around the bed and made the turn a bit too sharply. She stumbled into him, clearly not yet free from the effects of alcohol either. As he caught her, Derek could feel the warmth of her face through his shirt as she remained in his arms, reorienting herself. Had she not been thinking where she was going? Did it have to do with her being English, not used to the malts Scots pounded back with ease, or her youth allowing her to misjudge her limit? She finally pushed back and thanked him, unable to stand completely still. Swallowing hard, he nodded in reply as he watched her leave the room, her hips swaying a little too much to be deliberate. Derek peered out into the hallway and made sure she arrived at the door at the far end of the hall. She stumbled into it and shut the door behind her, which was soon followed by a shrill giggle and the strained creaking of a mattress. Derek ducked back into the guest room and closed his door quickly, thankful that the sounds were muffled. Before his brain caught up with his body, he found himself crossing the room and flopping down into the soft bed.

Hours passed, although they only felt like minutes, and Derek rolled back out of the bed, nearly landing on the floor. He shuffled to the bathroom with his head pounding, wincing at every little sound he heard. The light pouring in through the windows stung his eyes as he stumbled his way back downstairs. He made for the kitchen to see about a glass of water, only to be taken aback as he saw Clara milling about happily.

"Oh, good, you're up," she said when she saw him. "Take a seat; hope you like porridge alright."

"Yeah… yeah, that's fine. Thank you," Derek replied, his mouth dry. He sat down at the table and watched Clara as she put two bowls of porridge on the table, along with some toast and jam. She sat down across from him and motioned at the toast.

"Go on. Eat up."

"O-Okay, Clara," he said. It felt odd to him, sitting across the table from a woman he did not know that time the day before, let alone one so young, and wondered where John was.

They sat and ate in silence for a while, the only sounds being made involving dishes and eating. Eventually Clara broke the silence with "So, where abouts are you headed?"

"To visit my sister and mam in Killiecrankie. It's a bit hard traveling around during Hogmanay, so I…" Derek stopped when he noticed Clara snickering into her tea. "I'm sorry, but what did I say?"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry—it's just that I still find some of these names a bit giggle-worthy," she apologized. "I think I've even _sent_ kids to Killiecrankie, or at least sent soliciting letters there."

"So if I run into some brats that definitely don't sound like they belong, I shouldn't worry?"

" _Children_ , not brats," Clara insisted. She ate a spoonful of porridge and glared at the man across the table. "Do _you_ have children, Derek?"

"O-one: a son. He's fifteen and back home with my wife. Why?"

"Hmm; usually fathers are less likely to refer to other people's children as brats before meeting them, is all." Clara took a bite of toast and shrugged.

"What does, um, John refer to children as?" he asked.

"Pudding brains and wee rascals, mostly, but always in jest," she replied. "He wants to be a dad, and he will be, just not now… not when there's so much work to be done."

"Don't you think that's a bit mean, keeping that from him? If he wants to be a dad, he should be able to be a dad."

"When the time's right," Clara said, now irritated. She straightened her back and let her face harden, her steadfastness in the matter on display. "For now, there's work to be done."

"You mean _your_ work."

"No, I mean _war_ work—in case you haven't noticed thanks to your cozy American life, there _is_ one of those going on right now." She pursed her lips as she stirred her porridge, cooling it slightly. "Besides, I want John to be able to support a family doing what he loves and if we have a child now, then, well he may never go back to illustrating even though it's what he's meant to do."

"Johnny working on ships for the rest of his life because of a kid," Derek scoffed. "I don't see it."

"I do. Steady money is food in a child's mouth. You're a father too… wouldn't you do the same for your son?"

"Yes, but…"

"Okay then," Clara said curtly, cutting Derek off. She went back to her porridge and ignored the man in front of her.

A couple silent minutes passed and heavy footfalls could be heard up above. Clara stood up and began to rummage through a cupboard, producing a bowl that she began to ladle more porridge into. John trudged into the kitchen and allowed himself to collapse into the now-empty chair; his eyes were open just barely enough to see and it looked like he too had been hit a little harder by drink than he had hoped. He wrapped an arm around his wife as she slid into his lap, as there were only two chairs, placing the new bowl in front of him.

"Here you are," she said gently. John winced and slowly kissed her cheekbone.

"Please, not so loud. I'm right here."

"I'm not shouting," Clara said. She continued eating, acting as nothing was out of the ordinary.

"You too, huh?" Derek asked. John opened his eyes a bit more and looked at his friend across the table. "Can't hold it like I used to."

"Good thing we've got such a sweet lass to look after us then, eh?" John laughed weakly. They all ate silently until Clara finished, getting up from John's lap and putting her bowl in the sink.

"Clear your dishes and I'll take care of them when I get back," she said. "I have to pop over to the kids right quick and see how they're doing. I know Mr. Greene _said_ he would watch them, but that doesn't mean he's doing a very good job."

John nodded, his eyes closed again. "Am I making dinner?"

"No, just wait until I get home, okay?" Clara walked back over to her husband and kissed the top of his head, giving his far shoulder a pat as well. "See you in a little bit. Derek, you are staying aren't you?"

"You've been more than generous… I couldn't…"

"Unless you were planning on walking to Killiecrankie I don't see you going anywhere today yet," she said. "Buses don't start back up again until tomorrow, so just relax until then. There's not that much time left in the day anyhow." The young woman flashed him a smile that ordered him to stay, which made him cringe a little.

"Alright then," Derek agreed. Clara's smile widened slightly as she let go of her husband and left. As soon as the front door closed, Derek let out a sigh of relief. "She sure is spirited."

"You asked about kids, didn't you?" John muttered into his porridge. Derek grunted in reply. "Yeah, she gets testy about that. Not everyone understands, you know?" He paused. "Oh, you sober enough for a movie? I got some silents hanging around."

"You _still_ on hoarding films? I thought that's what the cinema was for," Derek chuckled.

"Oh… better here than walking out in the cold to see depressing news reels. I got Chaplin… _Hitchcock_ …"

"…fine. You win, but you better pick something good. How many films you got, anyways?"

John thought for a moment. "Before I had a wife, I had film night with just me and whichever new reel I could get my hands on." He paused and grinned hazily, remembering something private and pleasant. "Now I have film night with my wife, but it's less often I buy something new to stave boredom."

The two men quickly finished off their late breakfast and put their dishes in the sink along with Clara's. Afterwards they shuffled around the furniture in the sitting room and John brought the projector down from the attic along with some reels. They were able to get through nearly two movies before Clara came home to find her husband stretched out on the couch and their guest content in an armchair.

"You two look like you're having fun," she chuckled as she pulled off her coat in the entrance to the sitting room. "Think you might be able to brave a sound picture after this one?"

"I think so," John smiled. He craned his neck and looked over at Derek. "What do you say?"

"I'm sober enough if you are," he smirked. "Why don't you pick, Clara?"

"Sure thing." She vanished back into the hall and returned after the movie ended. John took the reel canister from her and stood to switch the films out. He looked at the new label curiously.

"I was going to get rid of this one; you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Clara said as she sat herself down on the couch, facing the projector screen and propping her legs up. "I haven't seen it, and I was curious."

"What did you pick?" Derek asked, leaning forward to see Clara's face.

"Oh, that Garbo film about Mata Hari. I wasn't able to see it when it came out."

"Why couldn't you? Did they not have it in England for very long?" Derek asked.

"It's a film about an exotic dancer working as a spy and I was twelve," Clara answered brusquely. John snickered as Derek leaned back in his seat and grimaced uncomfortably. After finishing setting up the new reel and flicking the projector back on, John went and laid back down on the couch. Carefully, he positioned himself so that he covered Clara's legs and rested the back of his head on her midsection, scrunching his leftover leg length into a bit of couch technically too tiny for him.

During the movie, Derek left to go use the loo. When he came back he caught a glimpse of the Smiths on the couch, lounging comfortably together. Clara had one hand on John's chest and the other in his hair, petting him gently, while he had brought one of his arms up and over his torso so as to rest his hand on hers. They were both watching the film, though not intently, with John almost looking as if he was nodding off in his wife's embrace. Derek sat back down and continued on with the movie.

As the film progressed, Derek began to think about his hosts with increasing intensity. He felt odd, having known John for so long and then, after not seeing him for nearly two decades to the day, finding himself in the shelter of his home. Everything was as if the two men had not seen one another for two _years_ instead, from John's film fixation to the age of his new wife (which would have been more digestible an age gap had it been only two years, he was ready to admit). He almost expected to look back over at the couch to see his old classmate at twenty-nine again, with his hair in curls and dressed in the waistcoat and day cravat he was nearly always seen in those days. It was a little time capsule, aside from Greta Garbo talking and Derek's joints being achy from the cold, and it felt odd.

John had not changed. He had aged physically, yes, but as far as advancing his sensibilities to matched how he looked, that was a wash. The young woman in whose arms he was nestled was proof enough for that, Derek assured himself. Then again, he also knew his old mate to never do something that would go against a woman's wishes. Even twenty years ago the only two things that could make John back down were enough whiskey in his system and the will of a woman. It was not out of fear, but out of respect. What had Clara done to earn that level of respect, he wondered, and how long would it stay intact?

He didn't doubt the respect existed… actually it was quite the opposite. It was more a matter of why and how, especially considering John's wife was better daughter-in-law material for them at this age than anything. Artists didn't make money, nor did they do many things, such as tending the garden and keeping clean, as well as normal husbands. John wasn't even the sort to sculpt and build anything grander than a frame, making him potentially rubbish in home maintenance as far as Derek was concerned. He was bound to be more trouble than not, so why would someone so young and pretty and capable of wedding well bother hindering herself with such a chore of a husband? It did not make a terrible amount of sense, forcing him to edge closer towards the only idea left that would have made sense.

It was love. Johnny found it, even if it was in an unlikely place, during an unlikely time, and he didn't care what anyone thought. He was good at that… always had been, though it took Derek until then to realize it. The odd, special sort of care he had always displayed around factory men now made sense, given no one else in their group had come from such stock. Women were never conquests and were instead names with personalities… even the flighty bird he had shagged at Gavin's party. At least, she _had_ a name once and the loss of that was a notion clearly upsetting to John. It wouldn't have upset some of the other blokes they had run with, but it upset him enough to make him feel at least a modicum of regret (in the alcohol department, anyways). Stuff like that kept him different from everyone else and now it made sense as to why. They hadn't been best of mates back during school, but Derek was glad to know there was love in Johnny's match. It was better than some of their other classmates had done, which was something he knew as pure fact, and that was good enough for him.

After another night of creaky mattresses and muffled giggles, Derek left for the bus station with a new address for the book at home and a smile on his face. It was always good to know an old mate was doing well for himself, even if the manner in which he was didn't exactly match what was expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 1931 Mata Hari film is most notable for being a decent example of pre-Hays Code Hollywood, where a woman is clearly supposed to be using her sex appeal in order to do bad things. Otherwise, I only rec it to MST3k fans, because it was one of those movies where everything might have come off better in the silents' pantomime. Also, Ramon Navarro needed several hugs.


	19. February 1941

John grinned excitedly as he hopped off the bus, clutching his messenger bag tightly. It was packed to the brim with his marketplace finds—his very fortunate marketplace finds—which made him giddy beyond belief. He walked quickly in the dim starlight, trying not to rush home to his wife. He would have preferred if Clara had been able to accompany him to Edinburgh on his rare, wonderful Saturday off, but she still had her students to attend to. If anything she was certainly dutiful. In fact, she had yet to return home when he came back to the house, evidenced by the sitting room curtains remaining open. He went inside, drew the fabric shut, and switched on the lights to begin mucking about in the kitchen.

First John emptied his bag of its haul—five film reels. He set them on the table and chuckled privately. They had been a little more expensive than he had originally been willing to go for, but he could not resist. Of course a clearance sale meant that he would no longer be able to go back and buy more, so he had to strike while the pan was hot. Once he was sure all the titles were accounted for, he began to rummage through the kitchen cabinets for something to throw together for dinner. There wasn't much—just some dried noodles and tinned veg and Spam and a block of cheese—so he grabbed the noodles and cheese and began to make dinner. He was almost done when Clara walked in the door.

"I'm home!"

"Kitchen!" he replied. John heard Clara's shoes get kicked off into the wall with a groan as she walked through the house and flopped down into a chair at the table. Though his back was turned while he stirred cheese into the noodles, he could feel her stare at him critically.

"John, what are these?"

"My trusty Germanic source for films is immigrating to America," he replied with a grin. He then ladled up some cheese-noodles in two bowls and brought them over to the table, placing one in front of Clara as he sat down. "She closes up shop in two weeks and has been trying to get rid of all her extra prints."

"What all did you get?"

"Let's see…" John muttered, picking up the reels and reading off their names as he shoveled noodles in his mouth. "'Night Train to Munich', some of the guys at work recommended it; 'The Philadelphia Story', very American but I heard good things; 'Werewolf of London', which I missed back when it came out; and the last copies she had of both 'Pinocchio' and 'Fantasia'."

" _What_ is a 'Fantasia'?" Clara asked, an eyebrow raised in reluctant curiosity. John nearly had to double-take in surprise, straining to not choke on his food.

"You remember! The movie I said I wished we could have gotten that's art to music but probably wouldn't because of the war? Well, Romana had been able to get her hands on some previously-distributed prints and… well… this is incredible!"

"John, calm down," Clara sighed. "I know you're excited that you found some new movies, but are you sure Romana wasn't just trying to get rid of her prints to stay off the radar? Dealing in old and copied film stock is more than slightly illegal, you know. I'm sure she doesn't have it easy thanks to being both Irish _and_ German. Didn't she even change her hair and everything since the war's started?"

"I think that's partially why she's moving; she hears it's a little better over there, though I'm not sure about that. The Americans won't stay neutral for long—it's not in their blood." John thought for a moment before perking up. "Hey, do you think we can have another film night for the kids?"

"Maybe next month," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I've only got a handful for a while, and that sort of thing is better done with a full house." Clara watched as John gathered the canisters and, after flicking up his eyebrows with a playful grin, carried them out into the sitting room. The longer she prolonged him spoiling her students, the more likely he was to forget about it.

After coming back into the kitchen, he got himself another helping of food before sitting back down. "You know, the last time I brought movies over for the kids I just sort of showed up with the canister. If the other teachers help you out, there's a chance the lot of you can hold this over the little pudding brains' heads and make the entire school behave a bit better."

"…meaning we can bribe them," she frowned, unimpressed.

John pointed his fork at Clara. "Precisely. Yeah, it's a bribe, but it's also a genuine reward. Those kids didn't ask for this, none of this from the good to the bad, and I think maybe a little fun for them wouldn't hurt."

"So then this has nothing to do with testing your dad skills," Clara sniped playfully. She finished off her noodles and put the bowl in the sink to wash later, chuckling as she heard her husband scoff in insult.

"You make it sound like I've never minded a child in my life."

"John, you spent one half of summer growling at the kids and the other taking delight in scaring them out of their wits. Remember when you made them think the school was haunted and banged around a pot from the kitchens in the hall?"

"Hey, that was funny," he defended. "The one kid, he loved it."

"Yes, but the other twenty-six didn't. Then what about the time you went along with the class and me to the seaside?"

"That child _begged_ me to toss him; it's not my fault someone walked into the trajectory."

Clara rested her fists on her hips and tapped her foot as she frowned. "I don't care if the target was the sand or the tourist—you've been awful."

"Oh, come on Clara…" John groaned. His wife just shook her head and disappeared into the sitting room. Muttering to himself, he went and put his bowl in the sink and filled the cooking pot with water to set before following her. To his surprise, Clara had uncovered the projector stand from its spot tucked in the corner and was fiddling with one of his new reels, holding up the flim strip to the light so she could see the single frames.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked. "I'm trying to figure out which one to watch. Do you really think any of the parents would object to an Italian storybook character?"

"I don't know why they would and then go home to have pasta in their casseroles," John shrugged. He pulled the projector towards the middle of the room and began to shake the dust off the sheet that had been covering the device. "You know the suggestion that was made at your last staff meeting about the kids and putting them in homes around here while waiting on answers from the country? That'd screw them up more than just turning them loose in a field of heather."

"You just don't like the idea because you're not fond of anyone else within five miles of the front stoop save a small handful of people, and that's including the students," Clara quipped. She slid _Pinocchio_ onto the front projector spindle and sat lengthwise on the couch to stretch out her legs and smooth her skirt.

"I don't hate your students," John shrugged as he finished hanging the sheet on the curtains. He then made his way over to the projector and began feeding the film stock through the device. "I could probably handle them well in smaller numbers. Say next shipment you only get three or four…"

"John…" Clara warned, " _don't_ even **_think_** about it. They are _children_ , not practice dolls."

"I'd more consider them a 'low-maintenance trial-run' of sorts," he chuckled, ignoring his wife's glare as he aligned the projector and fiddled with the focus on a still frame. "No nappies to worry about and we only have to keep the ones we like…"

He looked over at Clara and cringed at her eyes boring into him—fierce daggers that were ready to kill. After shutting off the lights, John flicked the projector back on and went to the couch to curl up atop his wife. He could not see her face soften as she attempted smoothing out his hair and pressed a kiss on the crown of his head.

"If we do ever need to house anyone, be it a day or two, I don't want to hear a single word about making the arrangement permanent, do you hear me?"

"I'll try," John said. He wrapped his arms around Clara and hugged her close, nuzzling the side of his face into her chest. "Clara…?"

"Yeah?"

"How many?"

"How many _what_ , John?" She rolled her eyes and smirked, though she had a feeling she knew what he meant.

"Children… how many?"

"Let's get you out of that shipyard before we nail down any numbers, okay?" Clara scratched her husband's scalp as the final title card faded away and the film started properly. While the animated… _thing_ leapt across the screen (there was no way that looked like a _real_ cricket), Clara's face fell and she let her head fall to the side and lean up against the backrest. "Do you promise you won't bribe them?"

"My own children?" John chuckled sadly. "No."

"You won't scare them?"

"Not unless they enjoy frights."

"And no tossing them?"

"Only into the couch cushions." John dislodged a hand from underneath Clara and used it to hold one of hers, bringing it up to his lips to kiss. "At least two?"

"Hush; numbers later. Now we've got to sit through this malformed cricket chattering on. If this alone doesn't scare my students witless, I don't know what will."

"They're city dwellers—I bet they think cricket's just a game."

Sighing through a smile, Clara gave John a light tap on the back of the head to hush him. They lay silently and continued watching the movie, fingers entwined and breathing synced. Both tensed as the little puppet-boy was brought to life by the Blue Fairy, John by tightening his grip on his wife's waist and Clara by slowing the rate in which she played with her husband's hair. She had remembered reading the story once to children, long ago when she still lived in a room in London, so she knew it was coming, but whether or not he did was something she did not know.

She did not know, nor could she ask, because as soon as the film was over, John untangled himself from her and pressed a finger to her lips. _Wait right here_. Clara sat there and watched as he went to the projector to flick it off. He then turned back around, his eyes hazy and his smile lax, before coming back to lift her up into the air, arms around her waist and under her knees, and kiss her slowly. She draped her arms around his neck and returned the affection, gently tugging at his hair as he carried her out of the room and towards the stairs—dinner cleanup was going to have to wait until later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can personally vouch for all the movies but "Night Train", which I've heard is pretty good anyhow.


	20. Early March 1941

Clara frowned worriedly the entire walk home. She had tried avoiding it with all her might, but her hands would soon be tied. Locked inside her office were fifteen train tickets for the next day, and she had seventeen students. It was inevitability crashing down on her and she didn't like it one bit.

A nervous flit in her stomach kept her overthinking all the way home—it would be more convenient to watch over them in her own home, for sure, but there was the matter of her husband and how she did not trust him. Well, she _could_ trust him with a low John-to-child ratio, especially the children that were in-question. What she did not trust were his paternal instincts that were becoming increasingly difficult to squelch. Keeping him away from the school helped, but it also seemed to make him worse in a way. It was subtle, but Clara could tell that kisses on her stomach were beginning to linger longer than others and his gaze occasionally became wistful and far-reaching. Their agreement was torturing him, she could tell, yet he barely said a word.

' _It's a treat for both sides_ ,' she assured herself as she entered the house. Clara drew the curtains and began to work in the kitchen, putting together dinner. ' _They deserve a home, no matter how temporary, and he wants to play at being a dad, because he doesn't know how long it will take before it no longer has to be pretend. Their train goes out the nineteenth… I can do this._ '

By the time John came home from work, dinner was done and Clara was just setting their plates down on the table.

"Ah, there you are," he said, face attempting to perk up from what had looked like a bad day. He bent down and kissed her neck from behind, hands trailing along her hips and midsection. "How was work?"

"Full of surprises. What about your day?"

"Some kids got into a fight during lunch and now the higher-ups are going to be watching us on the floor for two weeks," John groaned. He let go of his wife and sat down at the table, ladling himself some potatoes and sprouts. "No one's going to be relaxed while on-shift until they're gone."

"Sounds to me like Verity will be more sour than usual," Clara giggled. The corner of John's mouth twisted up as she said that, nodding in agreement.

"Something happens to Will, not that I want something to mind you, she's going to get his spot, and I hope I am nowhere near the yards when that happens."

"Really…? I know you've said she's good at her job, but doesn't that sort of thing involve overall knowledge?"

"…which she has. Verity's been working there a lot longer than I have, and it's sort of frightening." John shuffled around some sprouts on his plate and sighed. "Enough about that, though. What's going on in the exciting world of scraped knees and pulled braids?"

"A dilemma, actually… one that I'm hoping you can help me with," Clara said through a mouthful of food. Her husband raised his eyebrow from across the table, curious.

"You make it sound so serious," he said. "Go on."

"I was wondering if, provided it was alright with you, we could host a couple of the kids from the school for a while. I put all but two on a train tomorrow, and they won't have anywhere to go until a week from Wednesday."

"They can stay as long as they want," John smiled. "Who are we getting?"

"Sisters, Gwen and Ruby Miller. I've had trouble placing them and I want them to keep their spirits up while they're waiting."

"I won't mind at all." His voice grew a bit higher, betraying a calm exterior and revealing poorly-hidden delight. "Should I make up the guest room for them?"

"I'll make it; the last thing I need is you getting overexcited."

"…but they're kids, Clara…"

"…kids who have a mother in London waiting for them to write her from a stately Scottish home where they are completely free from danger," Clara nearly snapped. She caught herself and cleared her throat, taking a drink of water before shaking her head slowly. "It's still dangerous here, John. Nice try."

"Can't blame a man for trying," he chuckled. "What sort of things do they like? Do they like drawing or football or films or oh… they're not old enough to like boys yet are they?"

"No John, Gwen is nine and Ruby is seven; they came up here because it was stay together in Scotland or split between Devon and York. Boys won't happen for at least another couple of years." Clara sighed. "You're going to be that father, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"The hoovering, overprotective, intimidating, yet intensely proud father, aren't you?"

"Can't blame me for that either," John shrugged. As he took another forkful of potatoes, he lifted his foot and ran it under one of Clara's calves. She looked at him, only halfway amused, and continued eating.

* * *

"What are you so happy about, John?" Verity asked as she watched her coworker saunter up to his locker after the end of their shift. His grin was wider than usual, which was saying something considering how it had already grown exponentially within the past year. The older man put his hard hat in the locker and began taking off his coveralls.

"We're getting to host a couple children from London for a time starting tonight," John beamed. "They're the last of their group, and won't have another place to go for nearly a fortnight. I've got until then to convince Clara to keep them."

"John, they're children, not cats," Verity sighed. "So what, you're going to get to pretend you have the sons you thought you missed out on for the next week and a half?"

"I don't know of many lads named Gwen and Ruby, so no." John chuckled and stuffed his coveralls in his locker while taking out his flatcap. He took something out of the hat and quickly placed it in his jacket before putting both items on.

"John, what was that?"

"What was what?"

"Whatever it was you just put in your pocket. _John_ …"

Trying to contain himself, John shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and quickly flashed Verity a corner of the candy bar that was in it. The woman inhaled sharply and looked around, making sure no one else saw.

" _Where did you get that_?" she hissed. "No one's actively carried chocolate in ages, and I _know_ you don't keep your ration booklet on you."

"There's a shop up the road, if you know how to ask; the clerk owes me more than a few favors."

"…and you're cashing them in for children that aren't even your own?"

"It's just one favor… and yeah. I'll see you Monday, Verity. Say hi to Gorman and the kids for me."

With a knowing wink, John turned around and left work, not caring that Verity was decidedly dumbstruck at his blind devotion. He hummed happily all the way home, trying not to hold onto the chocolate bar long enough to melt it. A distant rumble of thunder rolled on by as he went through the gate of his house and approached the front door.

"Clara, dear, I'm home," he called out as he entered the house and closed the door. John put his jacket and cap on their hooks in the foyer as Clara came to greet him with a kiss.

"Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Gwen and Ruby are upstairs in the guest room if you want to introduce yourself."

"I'd be glad to." John waited until Clara was out of sight before he took off his boots, putting them neatly next to the two pairs of unfamiliar shoes, and slid the candy bar in his trouser pocket. He then went upstairs and knocked on the guest room door.

"You can come in, Mrs. Smith!" answered a tiny voice.

"It's Mr. Smith. Am I still allowed in?" John chuckled. He heard footsteps bound up towards the door; it creaked open and a dark head of tight curls gazed at him through the slit.

"You're Mr. Smith?"

"Yes I am. I was wondering if I could meet you and your sister before dinner, since I'm now home from work for the weekend."

The little girl ran away from the door, leaving it open. John walked in and found the sisters sitting on the bed with one of his books in front of them. They wore matching blue dresses and had the same eggshell-brown skin. Both of the girls' hair was very curly, with the elder's a dark brown and the younger's a reddish color.

"You must be Gwen and Ruby," John smiled. He sat down at the end of the bed, careful not to sit on the chocolate bar. "I must say, Mrs. Smith didn't warn me about you two properly."

The girls looked nervous. "W-why's that, sir?" Gwen, the elder, asked.

"You seem much more pleasant than I thought you'd be," John replied.

"Yeah, well you're _older_ than I thought you'd be," Ruby said. Gwen slapped a hand over her sister's mouth in a panic.

"I'm sorry, sir! She didn't mean it!"

"No, I think she did," John nodded. "She's right though: I am old enough to be your granddad and Mrs. Smith could be your young auntie. We are not your normal married couple." He paused for a moment, letting them digest the situation before continuing. "Here, I got you something, but you're going to have to promise you'll share." John then pulled the chocolate bar out of his pocket and held it out. Both girls' eyes went wide at the present, which Ruby took and held reverently. It was oversized in her tiny hands, which, her host imagined, made it look to be more than a month's worth to them.

"Wow… we haven't even _seen_ chocolate in a long time," Gwen said, less dumbfounded than her amazed sister. "Thank you, Mr. Smith."

"You're welcome. Now, you both are going to need to let me know what you like to do for fun so that we can plan our weekend accordingly. Guests in my house are never here to be sad."

The girls' faces lit up.

"I like reading stories!" Gwen announced. "Reading and going to the river and playing tag and climbing trees!"

"Yeah! And I like drawing! And kittens!" Ruby gasped. John chuckled.

"So you like reading and you like drawing? Then you've come to the right place. What book do you have there?"

"Um… ' _Mary's Magic Muffler_ '," Gwen replied.

"Oh, good, that's a favorite of mine," John said. "I wrote that in a weekend, about eight years ago now, after watching a young lady about your age nearly lose her scarf in a fierce wind in a park."

"You wrote ' _Mary's Magic Muffler_ '…?" Ruby asked, awestruck.

"I wrote all those books," John said. He motioned to the bookcase in the corner, one shelf of which he had been sure to fill with the children's books he had illustrated. "All the ones from that particular shelf anyway."

"We're not stupid, Mr. Smith," Gwen frowned. "There are lots of John Smiths, and Mrs. Smith said you work building ships."

"Adults all put on a different hat during times of trouble. Come with me." John held out his hand towards the girls; Gwen reluctantly took it, grabbing hold of her sister with the other. He stood up and led them out of the room, down the hall to a door that had been shut.

"Mrs. Smith told us not to go in this room, that it was off-limits," Ruby said.

"…and that is very good of you to remember her words, but it's okay," John said. He opened up the door and brought the girls in; it was his studio where he kept all his artwork from his books, some of which were laying around haphazardly in the open. Gwen let go of his hand and Ruby peeked out from behind her sister. The girls looked around, careful to not touch anything.

"So… you really are the John Smith that wrote ' _Mary's Magic Muffler_ '…!" Gwen said. "You did write all those books!"

"I wouldn't lie about that," John smirked. He sat down on the floor and watched the sisters as they marveled at the large illustrations they were used to seeing in their picture books. It took until Clara found them later, Ruby in John's lap as he sketched the posing Gwen, did they realize the time.

"I've been calling you three for dinner!" Clara frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Mr. Smith is sketching Gwen, 'cause he says she's pretty!" Ruby exclaimed. Clara rolled her eyes and groaned.

"Well, dinner's getting cold; get a move on," Clara said. The girls ran out of the room and down the stairs, laughing excitedly.

"Wait! Girls! Mr. Smith's old bones are stuck!" John shouted after them. Clara sighed and held out her hand, allowing her husband a boost up.

"A fortnight. They won't even be here a fortnight."

"I know, dearest."

"They already have a mum, and an older brother."

"I know." John kissed Clara behind the ear and gave her a small grin. "It could be a while before I am father-fit, so I need the practice. I'm at a disadvantage, you know."

"What you need is to go down to dinner, now shoo," Clara said, playfully shoving him towards the door. John complied happily; she was right, after all.


	21. Saturday

The following morning brought with it rain that came down in torrents, trapping the inhabitants of 12 Wissforn Road indoors. For John and Clara, it meant that they went straight to the couch to read and cuddle after breakfast… but for their tiny guests, however…

"This place is cool," Ruby said as she stood on a chair looking at old photos on the wall. "Do you know when this house was built, Mr. Smith?"

"Oh, a couple hundred years ago, if you can imagine," John chuckled. "It was my grandmother's grandfather who built it."

"…and you're old, so that must make this place _ancient_."

"Ruby, be nice…" Clara warned. The little girl sighed and continued looking at the photographs.

"Where was this taken?" she asked. "It kind of looks like the photos in the halls in our flat block."

"Oh…" John disentangled himself from Clara and put down his book, going over to look at the photo Ruby was pointing at. "That was on a bridge by Parliament Hall. I was a wee lad then, on holiday with my granny."

"You don't look very 'wee'," Ruby said. "You almost look as old as our brother!"

John chuckled at that. "Oh really now? Well, I was seventeen that trip. How old is your brother?"

"Uh… GWEN? HOW OLD IS RUPERT?"

"You don't need to shout," Gwen grumbled as she walked into the sitting room. She sat down importantly in the easy chair closest to the front window and smoothed out her skirt before curling up with one of John's books. "Rupert is twenty-five."

"Okay! He's twenty-five!" Ruby smiled.

"That's a little far away from seventeen," John laughed. He looked over at Clara and smirked. "Twenty-five… I've got mates whose sons are twenty-five."

"…and you're married to a twenty-two year old. You could have fathered us _all_." Clara smiled in satisfaction as John frowned at that, not even snapping out of it when Ruby hopped up onto his back.

"So you could be our dad?" Ruby asked. She climbed further up and sat on John's shoulders, reaching for the ceiling. "I'd like if you were our dad."

"No… your dad is your dad," John said, looking up at the girl as he held her shins in place for balance. "Don't you have one?"

"Ruby," Gwen hissed. "Stop it."

"Come on… aren't you sick of Rupert pretending to do dad stuff? We didn't even have the same dad as he did…"

" _Ruby,_ _ **stop**_."

"Now girls, don't fight," John scolded softly. "I can't be your dad since if I was your dad then Mrs. Smith would have to be your mam. You already have a mam, and she loves you very much, and I don't think she'd take kindly to some strange couple keeping you from her. Now tell me, what does your brother do?" John sat back down on the couch and let Ruby tumble off his shoulders into the cushion between him and Clara.

"He's a soldier," the girl said, folded up on her back and staring at the ceiling. "Before that he drove a truck somewhere. I forget. But no matter what he's always ' _clean your room_ ' and ' _eat your veg_ ' and telling us we can't play football in the flat."

"Always telling _you_ that you can't play football in the flat," Gwen chimed in. Ruby stuck her tongue out at her sister and scowled.

"Well, I have to agree with Rupert that it's probably not a good idea to play football in a flat," John sighed. He sat Ruby upright, only for her to drape herself in overdramatic boredom across his lap. "However, if your mam says you have to listen to your brother you probably should. He takes care of you, right?"

"Yeah… I guess," Ruby whined. "Still rather have a real dad though."

John paused for a moment, looking at Clara out of the corner of his eye. She did not seem to be bothered by the conversation and took that as permission to go ahead. "Does your dad not stay with you?"

"Our dad's in the Army, like our brother, but he went to India before the war and didn't come back. He's probably dead or something."

" ** _Ruby_** …" Gwen snapped, her eyes threatening to cry.

"Well, it's true!" Ruby scoffed, craning her neck to look at her sister. "And no one cares because something or other and Mum's good at looking after us because she had to look after her and Rupert when _his_ dad died. I'm _seven_ , not _stupid_."

"Alright, that's enough of that," Clara said, snapping her book shut. "Girls, behave yourselves while I talk with Mr. Smith in the kitchen."

"Okay…" Gwen and Ruby sighed in chorus. Ruby rolled off of John's lap onto the floor and made her way over towards the large radio box, poking at the heavy knobs. Clara pulled her husband into the kitchen and sat him down at the table, smacking the back of his head.

"Ow, what was that for…?!" John whispered. Clara narrowed her eyes and huffed angrily.

"You are _not_ their dad, you will never _be_ their dad, and you need to _stop getting attached to them_. You are horrible!"

"Clara, I'm just making conversation!"

"Do you want to know how long I've had Gwen and Ruby?" Clara asked. John stared at her, not replying. "I've had them for over three months. Most kids, even working class kids, are able to get homes in one, maybe two. Not Gwen and Ruby. They're looking for someone to get attached to who will keep them, whether they realize it or not. There's an estate up in the Highlands that is willing to finally take them both in, but only once they've cleared the space necessary to keep them. Not next week, but the week after. Don't encourage them in the meantime."

"I'm not _trying_ to be their dad. I just…"

"You just what?"

"I just want to know a bit more about them. No matter what they're still guests in my house."

" _Our_ house."

"That _I_ inherited, thank you. You've had them at the school for over three months and you haven't even asked them about their family?"

Clara sat down and sighed. "I've written their mum to let her know the progress, and she's written back. She worries about all three of her children a lot. It was actually all Rupert could do to convince her to let him join the Army and put the girls on a train up here after Christmas."

"He sounds like a smart young man."

"Real smart, from the way their mum goes on. She's worried he'll get himself killed like his stepdad, or die of the flu like his dad did, and never get the chance to amount to anything. She worries that her daughters will be split up like they would have if they'd gone to the English countryside with the rest of their classmates, and she didn't trust the people sending children into Wales. We owe it to her to not make this any more difficult than it already is."

John slowly nodded, but ended with a small smile. "There are children in the house for the first time in years. A year ago we hadn't even shared a bed but now we're married, there's _children_ , even if they aren't our children, and I'm so happy, Clara. The _house_ is happy. Can't you feel it?"

She blinked at him and raised an eyebrow. "The house? Now you're talking to the house? It's bad enough you're afraid of your family's ghosts but the house talking?"

"You stop calling the kilt a skirt and maybe I'll rest easier at night. There are people who take offense to that, you know," John replied, as if it was an argument they had fifteen times by then. His wife groaned and slouched in her chair.

"The nineteenth, one o'clock, Glasgow Queen Street to Aberdeen."

"Which means…?" He raised his eyebrows, curious.

"…which means you've got until twelve-fifty-nine on the nineteenth," Clara said. She held back a frown as she saw her husband perk up. "Don't think this is me wanting to have kids sooner by trying some out now; this is to _stave_ _off_ being a dad, not quicken it."

"Oh, of course, dearest," he grinned. John quickly stood back up and kissed her hair before going back into the sitting room, where Gwen was finishing her book and Ruby was moving her curiosity towards the back of the radio.

"Hey girls, it looks like the rain might be letting up for a little while. What do you say we go down to the river and take a look around? Did you bring galoshes?"

"Uh… no…?" Gwen said, pondering her answer. "I don't think we did."

"That's fine—I still think I've got some from when I was a lad knocking about. What do you say?"

"Yeah!" the girl cheered, jumping up from their seat and running to the door to get their coats. John turned around and saw Clara leaning on the doorframe between the kitchen and sitting room.

"Be careful," she warned. He made his way over and kissed her, grinning.

"Back in a couple hours, Mam. Now where'd you put my umbrella?"


	22. 13 March 1941

It was the following Thursday night and everything was quiet. Clara was sitting in the armchair closer to the kitchen, reading to herself, while John reclined on the couch reading ' _Kittens Come Home_ ', his newest rough draft, aloud to Ruby. He had a "sudden burst of inspiration", having made a bunch of rough thumbnails after work while his guests watched and his wife rolled her eyes. The little girl had snuggled up in his side as he read while looking very sleepy. It had been raining off and on all week, making the weather good for keeping her lethargic.

"So what do you think, Ruby?" John asked as he finished. "Is my new story going to be a hit?"

"I think so, Mr. Smith," the girl murmured into his chest. "I like the part where the kittens go to visit their granddad and aunt after their adventure. It's nice."

"I'm glad. Hey, why don't you find your sister and get ready for bed?" He gave her a soft pat on the shoulder, trying to shake her awake. "One of us will be up to check on you in a bit."

"Okay, Mr. Smith," Ruby said. John gently took his arm from off her back and she rolled off the couch. After leaving him a kiss on the brow and giving her teacher a hug, she padded up the stairs and left the two adults alone.

"John," Clara sighed, not even looking up from her book. "I know that I agreed to let you do this, but you have to be careful."

"I am careful," he grumbled. "You said we have them for less than a fortnight."

"Yes, and I know you—before long you're going to start talking about not sending them to the estate in the Highlands," she frowned, closing her book in her lap. "You fell for them before you even met them and spoiling the girls now is going to do nothing to help anyone."

John sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. "We don't know the kind of home they're going to after this, or if they'll still be able to go back to their mam and brother after the war. Gwen and Ruby are just children and I want to make sure they can be that, at least for a little while. Whoever takes them will probably put them to work."

"Many people put their evacuees to work—they're called 'chores'."

"I know, but…"

"After the war, John. I know you're going to be a great dad, but after the war."

"Of course, dear," John replied. He smiled sadly as he stood up and made the few steps to lean down to kiss Clara on the cheek. She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to his; he was the one that had been the keenest on playing at parent, and she could see that he was only trying to do his best. They looked at one another momentarily, until a shrill scream from upstairs made them both jump.

"Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith!" Gwen screeched. She and Ruby ran down the stairs crying. "Mrs. Smith they're coming!"

"…who's coming?" Clara asked, confused. The girls just looked at her with wide, terrified eyes.

"Ruby turned off the light so we could open the window and we heard them! The airplanes!" Gwen panicked. John turned off the lamp in the sitting room and drew open the blackout curtain so that he could poke his head out the window.

The steady hum of bomber motors hung in the air, soon drowned out by a piercing air raid siren.

"Clara, get the girls in the cellar! Now!" John ordered, his face hard and voice stern. Clara jumped up from her seat and ushered the sisters through the hall and out the back of the house. In the rear garden there was a door to a root cellar, separate from the house, which she threw open and let the girls inside. She looked up at the sky; there was nothing to be seen in the cloudy night. Clara gasped in fright as John came up behind her and shoved her urgently towards the steps. She stumbled to the dirt floor and was plunged into total darkness as he closed the door and bolted it.

"Gwen? Ruby? Where are you?" she asked the darkness. She suddenly felt their tiny hands grab onto her, shaking from the rumbling bombs and the chilled air. Clara bent down and put her arms around the girls in an effort to stay calm as the room shook slightly.

"Mrs. Smith, I'm scared," Ruby cried.

"I know, sweetie. I am too. John?"

"Right here, dear." John fumbled around and found a torch, which he turned on and surveyed the cellar. It was only the size of a bedroom, with stone walls and wooden trusses and shelves and old bits and bobs scattered about. In the corner was a large metal box, the sight of which caused him to breathe a sigh of relief. "Good; I did remember to bring it down."

"Bring what?" Clara asked. John held the torch under his arm as he opened the box and took out a tin of beans.

"Emergency rations. This should last us more than a few days if need be."

"When did you bring those down here?" Clara wondered. She sat down on the floor with Gwen and Ruby and shuddered as a low rumbling rattled the room.

"Back at the start of the war—all this stuff is good for another few years, minimum." He knelt down and kissed his wife on the forehead. Her teeth were chattering and she was shivering all over. "Don't worry. This place is carved from bedrock. This dirt floor is only a few inches thick, but there's nothing but rock below and rock and lots more dirt above; nothing can get us down here."

"W-what is this place?" Gwen asked. John brushed some hair out of her face and smiled gently at her.

"My granny's granddad built my house a very long time ago, before things like iceboxes and air refrigeration had been invented. They needed this place to keep food cold and fresh during the summer. I remember coming down here when I was smaller than you to get Granny some potatoes."

Another blast rumbled above them, forcing John to put his hand on the wall to brace himself. Ruby flung herself into his side and continued crying.

"Aren't you scared, Mr. Smith?" she sniffled. John picked the girl up and sat down next to Clara, putting one arm around Ruby and one around his wife.

"Long ago I was a soldier fighting a war much like this one," he said calmly. "I was young then, a little younger than your brother is now, and I thought I was very brave for going."

"Weren't you?" Ruby asked.

"No. I was very reckless; there's a difference. To make a very long and very scary story short: I learned a few things as a soldier. One of them was how to control your fears so that they don't control you. They either become your greatest strength or your worst enemy. Your brother will learn that too, and I can only hope he uses that to his advantage."

"So, you're never scared?"

"Ach, no, I'm scared all the time," he replied, shaking his head. "Things like this though, I can control much better than others because I have already lived it once or twice. Now I think what you girls should be doing is getting some sleep. Come."

John stood up and walked over to the wooden shelves, where there was a thin camping mattress along with a dusty pillow and blanket. He shook them all out and replaced them back on the shelf. Gwen and Ruby laid down and huddled close as John drew the blanket up over them. The rumbling grew louder as he walked back to Clara and sat down, allowing her to crawl into his lap and wrap his arms around her.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't let go."

"I never planned on it." John picked the torch up from off the ground and raised his voice. "I'm turning off the light now. We don't know how long we'll need it."

"Okay…" came the unified response of the sisters. John flicked the torch off and put it down. The outside rumbled again.

"You girls doing okay?"

"Yes Mr. Smith."

"Good. If you need us, we're right on the other side of the room. Remember that stone is strong. Good night." The bombs continued to gently shake the room and the sirens and engines whirred outside, filling the silence with sickening dread.

"John that was a nice speech and all, but how are _we_ supposed to weather this?" Clara whimpered into his neck. John pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head as he felt the earth beneath him rumble softly again.

"With each other," he replied. "Gwen and Ruby have one another, and they always will. You and I have one another; it's better than where we were at even this time last year, wouldn't you agree?"

Clara nodded quietly and shivered in her husband's arms. John let go of her long enough to take off his jumper and slide it over her head, surrounding her in knit warmth. They curled up together and attempted to find sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for the lack of first-hand knowledge (as well as any sort of general research) on the prevailing geological strata in and around the Glasgow-Clydebank area, but for the sake of story I am using a model of glaciated bedrock capped by about eighteen inches of topsoil deposits. Whether this is the regional prevailing strata or not, I do not know nor do I think many people care, but I need to mention it because I don't know where anyone lives and it would be my luck that I'd have an actual Clydebank resident amongst the readership trying to call my bluff. Again, apologies.


	23. 14 March 1941

Clara woke up to John gently moving her arm from his side and placing Ruby next to her. During the night, the girls had managed to make their way back over to them, with Gwen finding Clara's lap and Ruby clinging to John. She glanced around and saw that her husband was headed towards the staircase. Standing up, she walked over to the bottom step to watch as he unbolted the door and tried to move the heavy wooden boards to no avail.

"Is it stuck?" she asked. He looked down at her and frowned.

"Something must have landed on top of it," he replied, sitting down on a step. "It looks like we're stuck until whatever it is gets removed."

"Does anyone know we're down here?" Clara sat down next to John and let him put his arm around her, thankful that the door had slits and holes enough to allow a little morning light to filter in.

"Everyone on the street has these cellars, just about," he shrugged. "When they don't find us in the house, or parts of us depending on how the house is, they'll be looking for us here."

"Are you sure?"

"Eunice from number ten rode out nearly the entirety of the First World War in the cellar of number twenty-one out of sheer paranoia, if I'm to believe what I've been told." John rested a hand on Clara's knee and rubbed gently. "I put enough in that box to last me over a month. We can hold out until they find us for sure."

"I hope so," Clara said. She leaned her head onto John's shoulder, biting her lip and taking deep breaths in order to stay calm. She had to stay calm… no, she _needed_ to stay calm. This was a necessity.

"Mrs. Smith…?" Gwen sniffled. The girl sleepily shuffled over to the staircase and looked up at her guardians. "I'm hungry."

Cooking, yes. Cooking was a thing Clara could definitely control, could definitely do. "I'm coming. Why don't you wake up Ruby and try to take a peek at the sun?"

"You mean, we can't get out?"

"Not until someone moves whatever is blocking the door, no," John said. "It's not that bad. We have each other to talk to, and everyone in the neighborhood has cellars like these. They know where we're at."

"O… okay…" Gwen replied softly. She then disappeared to wake her sister.

"So what you got in that box of yours?" Clara asked as she stood up and stretched. John shrugged in reply.

"Lots of beans, most likely. I like beans."

"Then beans it probably is," Clara smiled, giving John a kiss before walking back down the steps. Picking up the torch from next to Ruby, she went over to the metal box John had looked for the night before. She opened it and began to rummage through in search of food and something to cook with. There were lots of tins of beans, as John had said, as well as two other boxes down at the very bottom. Clara held the torch with her chin as she took one of the boxes and checked its contents—a revolver. She gasped quietly, almost dropping it.

"Did you find the cookware?" John asked from the staircase. "It should be at the bottom."

"John… come here please," Clara said, her voice shaken. He complied, leaving the girls with their attempts at wiggling their arms out of a small hole in the corner of the door. When he saw the box in his wife's hands, he sighed and bent down, taking it from her.

"I was a different man then," John said quietly. He kissed Clara's forehead and put the box far back on a high shelf. "There's none of that in me anymore; in fact, I forgot I had packed it. The other box—that's where you'll find the camp stove and matches."

"Y-Yeah…" Clara shuddered. She uncovered the tiny stove and began heating up some beans. When they were done, she had the girls clean off some old spoons from the shelves and let them have their fill as she heated another tin for her and John. They ate silently, not knowing what to say to one another.

The hours that passed were long and tedious. Clara mainly laid on the staircase, letting what little sunlight that could pass through the cracks in the door to splash down on her face. Lunch was tinned beans, as was dinner, and by nightfall Clara was getting restless.

"I can't do this John, I just _can't_ ," she said as she paced the little bit of floor available to her. Gwen and Ruby had already gone to sleep, leaving the adults to talk in hushed tones. "They better find us tomorrow, or I might just go crazy."

"Calm down, Clara," John sighed. "I haven't been to work, you haven't been to work, no one's seen the girls… they'll know we're missing."

"John, be realistic, they don't like the girls," she snapped. "We both like them because they're children that need help, just like the other dozens upon dozens of kids I've placed. We both know they're just good, sweet children that need a good, safe home, but Mrs. Rigby told me flat-out she doesn't want Gwen playing with her daughter. They are _not_ going to be searching for us."

"Mrs. Rigby hates everybody that isn't her and her own," John said. "She doesn't like the vicar because his mam's Irish. The _vicar_ , Clara. You can't hate that man even if you tried. I'm also pretty sure she hates you by virtue of being English."

"That's not a revelation—she called me an Anglo-Saxon whore to my face only last month." Clara shook her head jerkily and shuddered. "This room is going to drive me insane."

John sighed and took his wife in his arms, nestling her underneath his chin. "Relax. We'll be fine. I've gotten through worse on less hope and certainly less tinned beans. You are strong enough to do this." He softly began to hum a tune, spinning around in place. Once she recognized the song, Clara began to join in until they were both twirling and humming in sync. She nearly began to feel better, nestling into John's jumper of work and sweat and machinery.

Suddenly, a low rumble in the distance interrupted them. The couple stopped and listened—yes, it was a rumbling noise and the floor vibrated ever-so-slightly. John quickly climbed the ladder and put his ear to the door, only to slide back down and force Clara to sit down in the corner furthest from the door.

"Stay there!" he ordered. Clara's breathing became shallow and her body began to shake as John plucked Gwen from her makeshift bed placed near the door and carried her over to Clara's side. The girl woke up, only knowing that she did not have her sister next to her.

"Ruby?!" she cried. "Where's Ruby?!"

"I'm going to get her; now stay with Mrs. Smith," John said firmly. The girl latched on to Clara as she was put down on the floor. John turned to go back to get the younger sister, but was knocked to the floor by the shake of an explosion. The bombs were _closer_. Ruby sat up straight and screamed.

"Gwen!"

"I'm coming Ruby!" Gwen bolted from Clara's side and ran to her sister, pulling her down from the shelf and holding her close.

It was then that Clara noticed something: the door had blown open.

"The door! John! We can get out!" Clara gasped. She jumped to her feet, half in hysterics as she rushed towards the door. "John, we can leave!"

"Clara! Stop!" John shouted as he staggered to his feet, wobbling as his vision blurred. Clara didn't listen however, and climbed the ladder until she could breathe in the cool air of the outside. She looked up and her eyes went wide at the sight of large, cylindrical objects falling from the sky above her.

Unable to move, Clara screamed as she watched the bombs come whistling down. One made contact with the garden fence and exploded violently, knocking her off her feet and down the stairs. John was finally able to get to her, scooping her up and putting her back in the corner with Gwen and Ruby. He knelt down and braced his hands on the walls, shielding them from anything else that may come from the opened door and keeping them in place.

Clara wordlessly, blindly, grasped around for something to hold on to. Curls… girls? Yes, girls. Hold the girls. Shaking. Words. Crying. Crying? Yes, crying. Mouth moving. Talking? No talking. Can't talk. Noises. Loud. Ringing. Ears. Hands, tiny, grabbing. Screaming. Panic. Arms. Heartbeats. Calming. _John_ …

By the time Clara came to her senses, sunlight was pouring in from the open cellar door. Both sisters were nestled in her lap, fast asleep from exhaustion. She carefully moved them off, freeing her to go to the bottom of the stairs. Clara hesitated before putting her foot on the bottom step. When that held her weight, she continued until she was once again outside.

The world around her was grey and desolate. Blocks upon blocks of houses had been shelled out or leveled, removing the landmarks that had become so familiar to her over the past year. John was sitting nearby on a large chunk of stone, silently staring at the remains of their house—the west wall remained, but just up to the middle of the second level. Bits of wood and furniture, art supplies and kitchenware, littered the garden. Shakily Clara walked across the lawn and put a hand on her husband's shoulder. He looked up at her with glassy, unblinking eyes before gently pulling her down to his lap, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her chest.

"It's all gone," John said, his voice flat and calm. "All my art, our clothes, your paperwork, my family's history… just… _gone_."

Clara tried to say something in return, but all that came out was a raspy whistle. John lifted his head and looked her in the eyes. Both of them breathed heavily as he took hold of either side of her face and touched their foreheads.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to you quicker," John breathed. "If I had gotten there twenty seconds earlier…"

Clara shook her head. No John, it was not your fault. None of this was your fault.

"I was so scared I was going to lose you, Clara. The fact I'm holding you right now is a miracle all to itself."

You saved us John. You were the one with the cellar, with the rations, with the knowledge. That was what you made happen.

"The neighbors are gone—I don't know where they are, if they're dead or in the hospital."

…but _we_ are not…

"Let's get Gwen and Ruby and go find someone else who made it through, okay?" John suggested. Clara silently nodded and left a deft kiss on John's forehead before standing up and going back to the cellar. She shook the sleeping girls gently, waking them.

"Huh… Mrs. Smith…?" Gwen asked blearily as she sat up. Ruby sat up next to her, choosing to rub the sleep from her eyes instead. Clara motioned for them to follow. "What…?"

"Where's Mr. Smith? I want Mr. Smith…" Ruby whined. Clara took both the girls by a hand and led them over to the staircase. When they got to the top, Gwen looked around wide-eyed at the surrounding damage while Ruby ran straight for John. Clara examined more of the damage closely, gasping as she saw a familiar-looking tiny mass in the garden over that had been twisted and contorted unnaturally in death. She heard the whistling of the bombs coming down again, causing her breathing to quicken. Crouching down, she held the sides of her head and tried to calm herself.

_No. Stay calm. Be calm. You are calm._

The world began spinning uncontrollably as Clara sank to her knees. She heard distant noises, like shouting, and then suddenly felt the sensation of being lifted up beneath her knees and around her waist. Clara instinctively clung to a neck to steady herself before burying her face in it. She lost sense of time as she was carried and fell back asleep as she was placed on something soft and warm.

Hours later she woke up, blinking at the ceiling of her office. Wait, her office? At least the school made it through, anyways. She looked over and saw John sleeping sitting up in her chair. She reached out and touched his knee, waking him with a start.

"Clara? Oh good, you're awake."

"John…" Clara whispered. Her voice was quiet and her tongue felt like sandpaper. "John, I…"

"No, shh… not now," John said. He scooted the chair closer to the couch and put a hand on his wife's head, stroking her hair and letting his fingers trail across her cheek. "You've had a shock, even by a soldier's standards. Just rest; I've got the girls. They're writing a letter to their mam now to let her know they're alive. They're fine."

"Good."

With that she went to sleep and dreamt of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the war years, Glasgow and the surrounding communities along the River Clyde were bombed five times by Luftwaffe planes. The attack on 13 March 1941 was originally meant to target the shipyards and other manufacturing in the area yet accidentally hit nearby residential areas instead. The following day's attack is commonly viewed as an act of deliberate terrorism, as it was planned to throw another volley at civilians to demoralize and cripple the primarily-manufacturing-based workforce. In all 528 people died, over 600 seriously injured, hundreds more hurt, and all of seven houses in Clydebank survived intact, making tens of thousands homeless. Though there were four other bombing instances in the area I am only going to deal with the one currently featured. This does not mean the others were less important, but that from a storytelling perspective focusing on the repeated attacks would draw away from the true nature of this story: a slice-of-life filled with fluff about an unlikely couple. The war is not the forefront—only the backdrop.


	24. Late March 1941

John looked around the train station, watching as people milled about. Gwen clung to his side, trembling in nervousness.

"Now, now, what's that for?" he asked. The girl looked up at him; he had her hand drowning in one of his, their small suitcase in the other, and Ruby clung atop his shoulders.

"I'm scared, Mr. Smith. I want us to stay with you."

John sighed and continued walking, gently pulling the girl closer to her platform. "Everyone gets scared. Your heart's about to leap out of your chest and you probably feel like running all the way back to Mrs. Smith at the school. If you tried, I bet you could jump high and hit hard and even knock a full-grown man over if he did his best to catch you."

"Yeah, but we still want to stay," Ruby sniffled. John groaned and had Gwen sit down on a bench. He then put the suitcase down on one side of her and lifted the younger girl off his shoulders to place her on the other. Crouching to his knees, he took a hand from each girl in his and looked them in the eyes.

"We can't keep you, as much as we all agree it would be for the best. Your mam knows you're safe, but for how long? You will only be safe from the bombs out in the countryside, as was planned."

"Then can't you come with us?" Ruby asked. "It's a large place we're going to, right? You and Mrs. Smith can come stay with us, and then you'll be safe too!"

"No; it was agreed there would be a pair of sisters in need of a good home on the train, not a pair of sisters and their friends. They might not have the extra space for all four of us. Besides, I need to build more ships and Mrs. Smith needs to help place more children. You and I all know that there's no room in Mrs. Smith's office for four of us."

"No…" Gwen and Ruby both said dejectedly. John spread his arms and the girls hopped off the bench to give him a hug. Gwen let out a tiny squeak of a whimper and John patted her curly hair.

"None of that now. The first thing you're going to do after writing your mam to tell her you made it safely is what?"

"Write you and Mrs. Smith!" Ruby piped up.

"That's right. Write us whenever you feel like it; we're not going anywhere for a long time. Now come on, let's get you on the train."

"Okay…" the sisters agreed. They held hands as John led them to the coach and helped them board. He placed their suitcase on the rack above their seats as the girls attempted to settle in for the ride ahead.

"Are you two all set?" John asked. Ruby nodded silently, while Gwen tried to sink into her seat.

"The man over there is watching us," she whispered. John looked over his shoulder to see that the coach attendant was indeed observing them, brows furrowed and glare stern. He turned back to the sisters and leaned in close.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge-Stewart," he whispered so that only they could hear, "are your Uncle Alistair and Auntie Fiona. What was their daughter's name?"

"Kate…?" Gwen said slowly. "…but we're not…"

"We lived in London until the bombs came and took your mam. We moved to Glasgow for a little bit, but now it's not safe here either. I'm following in a few weeks, after I finish tying up loose ends here."

"…but Mum's fine," Ruby said quietly. John raised his brow and tilted his head forward, looking back and forth between the girls. Gwen was the first to have the pieces snap in place, a wide grin creeping across her face.

"Mum was pretty, and she sounded different from everyone else," she said. "We don't like talking about London or Glasgow, because it was scary. Going to see our aunt and uncle is exciting, because we haven't seen them since we were very little and barely remember them."

"That's right," John affirmed, flashing teeth. Ruby looked back and forth between them, confused.

"Are… are we _lying_ to the man?" she asked quietly.

"Only a little one, to make the trip easier," he admitted. "Remember that the lie stops when you get off the train, and you're back to the Gwen and Ruby with a worried mam and a protective older brother. Can you promise me that?"

"We promise," the girls said in unison. John spread his arms wide and grinned.

"That's my girls," he beamed, bringing his voice back to normal. The sisters both hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he returned on their brows. "Now make sure you write me once you get to your auntie's, okay?"

"Okay," they both giggled. John straightened and walked back towards the front of the coach, where the attendant and the door were waiting.

"Pardon me, but can I ask you something?" he said, clearing his throat with a cough. The attendant raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

"Listen, I know my daughters generally travel well, but could you make sure no one bothers them until they reach my sister? I would go with them if I could."

"Where's your wife?" the attendant asked calmly, straight-faced and unimpressed. John shook his head and bit his lip as he quickly searched his brain for the excuse.

"The Blitz," he replied simply. "Mélanie was…"

The attendant held up a hand, stopping him. "You don't need to explain—your daughters will be fine. With any luck you'll see them soon, yeah?"

"Thank you," John said. He made sure to look as sad as possible as he stepped off the train and stood on the platform outside the girls' window. Ruby noticed him standing there and opened up the window, sticking her head out.

"Bye Dad," she giggled. "We'll miss you!"

"I'll miss you too, sweetheart," he replied. The whistle on the train sounded; it was time to go. "Go on, get in! Sit down or you'll fall over!" Ruby closed the window and she and Gwen waved at him as the train pulled away. John frowned as he watched the train leave the station, admittedly sadder than he should have been.

By the time he returned to the school, most of the day had been taken up with the bus rides to and from the station. He walked towards the building and up to Clara's classroom. Everything was deathly quiet as he entered and slowly poked his head in his wife's office, where he found her lying on the couch, trembling.

"Were they okay…?" Clara asked quietly. John lay down on the couch as well, pressing himself protectively against her.

"They didn't want to go, but they didn't jump out the train window as it was leaving," he explained. "The coach attendant promised me he'd watch over them until they arrive at their destination. Their mam should be proud of her daughters for being so brave."

"I… I'm sure she is," Clara said. She paused before exhaling heavily into his chest. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Making you do that. I know you were fond of them, but…"

"Shh… you need rest, and work won't start back up again for another week, so that we know who is on which side of the grass," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I don't mind helping you—people listen better to an old man putting his daughters on a train to safety, after all."

She leaned back and attempted to look her husband in the face. "What…?"

"Just a little lie," John chuckled. "The car attendant's not a local, just some bumpkin from Cornwall or something. I don't know, nor do I care. What I do know is I will likely never see him again, but he has promised to watch over the little angels that are the last connection I have to some exotic and beloved bride lost in the Blitz."

Clara paused and let that all sink in. She then frowned, nudging him forcefully on the shoulder. "You are the absolute _worst_."

"Oh, but you should have seen the looks on their faces when Ruby called me ' _Dad'_ ," he grinned. Clara rammed her forehead into his chest, grumbling about how she married the most insufferable man on the planet.


	25. April 1941

John stretched languidly as the whistle blew to signal the end of the day. He quietly shuffled over to his locker and put away his hardhat and coveralls. There weren't many people to talk to: Verity and Collette were still on the mend, many of his old school mates were in various forms of hospitalization and injury leave, while a few were even dead, and those that were left didn't feel much like socializing. He left work about as silently as he arrived, politely nodding to people as he walked by.

The world outside the shipyard was still loud and hectic, however. Crews clearing out debris from the bombing were still working as fast as they possibly could, trying to make it so Clydebank could rebuild as quick as possible. John didn't know if they had gotten to Wissforn Road yet or not. He let old muscle memory take over and he veered off towards his destroyed home, licking his lips nervously. It was a quiet walk, as few were in the neighborhood. It was an eerie sort of silence that gripped him—just last month there would have been children shouting and bickering wives and who-all-knew what going on. Now it was just the sounds of work crews and housing tents growing fainter and more distant.

Sure enough, John paused at the mouth of the empty street. Nearly all the houses had been bulldozed, or at least what was left of them, leaving the entire neighborhood a flat expanse of land. He walked along the ruined pavement and dug in his memory—how many steps to his front garden? Where was his gate? Were these the foundations of his house? Was this the property that was built up by Foremans and inherited by Smiths? He went to the back of the lot and found the root cellar, stripped of its doors and wide open for all.

John descended the steps and looked around. Yes. This was his. There was the camping equipment, the empty bean tins, the metal box discarded in the corner. Most anything that had been of monetary value had been picked through by either himself or by thieves. There wasn't much in there to begin with—just essentials. Curious, he went to the top corner shelf and reached to the back. It was still there, the box with his uncle's revolver and one bullet. He vaguely remembered putting it in with the beans and cookware as an afterthought, but it felt so long ago now. The past year and a half had been such a blur, both good and bad, but at least it kept him alive; he _felt_ more alive than he had then, despite the loss of most of his worldly possessions and the near-loss of his wife. He left the box and ascended the stairs; he no longer needed this place.

As he popped his head above the ground, he noticed some flowers growing nearby. They were tiny and delicate white things mixed with some heather. Where the heather came from he had no idea, since he had never known heather to grow in his garden, but John picked them all until he had a respectable bunch in his hand. After grabbing some rosemary from the former neighbor's garden, he walked back down the street and to the main road; there were better places to be.

Smiling to himself, John completed the walk back to the school. As one of the few buildings that remained intact (or relatively speaking, considering the gaping hole in the side of Year Two's room), it had become a mass shelter for some of the surviving Clydebank residents. People milled about the first floor, going in and out of the gymnasium and the cafeteria and whichever other place they had been allowed to set their things. He, however, walked right through them to the staircase and went up a floor to where it was quieter. Few people were allowed up there at night anymore, as to not put too much constant stress on the building until the hole in the side was repaired. He was though, and for that he was thankful.

John opened the door to Clara's office and found her curled up on the couch. She sat upright when she saw him and wiped the tears from her face—he often came back from work after she'd have a long cry these days. She was substituting for two teachers at once, taking on both Years Five and Six as they tried to return to some semblance of a normal routine. He knelt down in front of her and held out the flowers.

"For you."

"Thank you," she said with a little nod. "Please put them on the desk; I'll find something to keep them in later."

"Sure," John nodded. He put the flowers on the cramped desk. There was hardly any room for anything in the office anymore, what with what little they could salvage from their home taking up much of the remaining space. Rummaging through Clara's desk, he found a bit of string and used it to bundle the rosemary, putting it with the other tiny bunches he had scavenged from the remains of old gardens. They hung from the ceiling, above where they rested their heads on the couch at night, making John feel more secure and his wife feel silly. He then took off his jumper and shirt to hang up on a rod that sat between a shelf and the bookcase, kicked off his boots, and laid down on the couch, allowing Clara to curl up on top of him. "So… was today any better?"

"Not really," she replied quietly, "but I didn't blank out on the students again today."

"That's great, Clara." John played with a bit of her hair as he craned his neck to kiss the top of her head. "Believe it or not, that is progress."

"I'm still scared," Clara shivered. "What if they come back again?"

"I doubt they will. They made their point here. It's not exactly done what they want, but I doubt there's much left they can do." He wrapped his arms around her, trying to make her feel safe. "I still think you are handling this incredibly well."

"John… I almost _died_."

"Yes, and I've seen a man who was a street-fighter before enlistment get reduced to a babbling mess that couldn't even hold a gun anymore, let alone look at one because of a grenade going off twenty feet from him." John continued to comb his wife's hair with his fingers in order to smooth it and keep her calm. "Last time I saw him he still shit his pants at any sound loud and sudden enough to spook. I also met someone who had more survivor's guilt than anyone knew what to do with when he got out of the Army, but after ten years he was able to find happiness again in a wife and kids."

Clara laid there, silent.

"Dearest, everyone manifests terrors differently if they do at all. Many don't get better, but many do all the same. If you didn't break down crying in front of the students today, then it is a good day in the relative scope of things. It means you're getting better, even if it doesn't feel like it, and I am incredibly proud of you for that."

"…thank you, John." She paused, letting silence fill the room before whispering a hoarse "I love you."

"I love you too." John went and rolled over, so that he pressed Clara between himself and the back of the couch. "Happy anniversary."


	26. May 1941

Despite the large amount of people just one floor down, the school was quiet as Clara sat up in her office writing. John let out a small snore and rolled over on the couch; the shipyard needed to keep to schedule and with much of their staff still missing from injuries it meant double shifts for the able-bodied that ended up tiring out him before he even came home. Clara looked at the letter she had in front of her and read it over.

_Dear Gwen and Ruby,_

_I'm sorry it took me so long to finally write you back. Lots of my former students had written to make sure I was alright and I had to let them know straight away. Everyone has been very worried, which is understandable. You remember how I said my dad was working in America? He came back a week after you left and took the first train he could to see us. No, he didn't sleep in the office (he took the next train back), but he'd still be here if the house made it through._

_Mr. Smith and I are glad to hear that the both of you are doing well and getting along with the Lethbridge-Stewarts. You are good girls and very brave for going even though you didn't want to. I heard about the lie Mr. Smith told the coach attendant—please do not lie. I know he did it to protect you, but that does not mean everyone was safe. Lying can be very dangerous, especially today._

_Other than that we're doing okay._

Clara paused and looked at the last sentence. After a lecture about lying, that certainly was a bald-faced one. She sighed and picked her pen back up to continue.

_Other than that we're doing okay. Well, okay comparatively. Mr. Smith is working a lot of hours now to make sure the ships get built on-time. The nightmares I was having, the ones that kept me up so late, are slowly going away. They're still there though, so I wouldn't say I'm better. Mr. Smith says it's the rosemary working, but I still think he's being rather silly. The agency is no longer going to send me children to place, but I got taken on as a full-time teacher at the school so we can stay. Remember Miss Grant? The Year One's teacher with the wide mouth that gets easily excited? She joined the Army, which left a position to fill. Miss Chaplet took Year One, so I now have her class. You're the last children to be placed from here, and I am so very glad that we could put you in a nice home._

The pen stopped moving and Clara hesitated. She turned the page over and continued.

_Girls, things are hard. I know neither of you are stupid—in fact I think you are both very clever little ladies—but I don't know how much of what is going on you actually understand. This is not good or bad in any way, but I want you to know that it's okay to not understand things right now. You both will, one day, if you don't already, and I want you to know that no matter what there are people who love you despite all this. I am proud of you both for doing scary things because even the adults understand little these days._

_Write again when you get the chance, but not before you write your mum. Rupert too, if you can manage._

_Take care,_

_Mrs. Smith_

Clara folded up the paper and neatly copied the address from the envelope the girls had sent. When she was done she looked up at the wall above her desk—it was always filled with drawings from her students, but there were two new ones with fresh folds. One was of a grand house, presumably the one they were staying in, with both a wood and a lake not far away, and the other was of four cats. The large cat was brown with grey stripes, the medium cat was brown without stripes, and the two small cats, kittens really, were light brown and red. Clara smiled and put the sealed envelope in the basket on the side of her desk; post wouldn't be picked up until morning anyways.

Rolling her chair away from the desk, Clara stretched and sleepily kicked off her shoes. She stood and quietly opened the office door to hang on the knob the wooden 'OCCUPIED' placard that John had found. They imagined it had belonged in an office once, or maybe somewhere else, but it was theirs now as it had been lying on the pavement between the school and the shipyard with no one in sight to claim it. She shut the door again and turned off her desk lamp; John wasn't the only one who needed and early go at some rest.

Clara slipped into her nightdress, careful to not knock anything out of the packed cupboards as she put her day clothes away. She then crawled over John and laid down in the tiny crack between him and the back of the couch. His vest was pungent, smelling of sweat and metal and scorched things, but that was fine. Laundry was tighter now and it wasn't their turn to use the machines until the weekend. At least he had bothered to hang up his work clothes in the corner instead of falling asleep in them again.

"Mmmpf," John grumbled, wrapping his arm around her and shifting as to better accommodate the second body on the couch. Clara wiggled into her extra space, still finding the fit a bit snug.

"What was that?"

"Goodnight," John muttered, voice heavy and distant as though he were still dreaming. His hand found her bottom, then the small of her back, holding her absentmindedly in the dark room.

"Goodnight," Clara echoed. She closed her eyes and listened to the ticking of the clock as it attempted to lull her to sleep.

Very suddenly, the pipes in the wall gurgled, hissed, and banged, jolting her awake. Her chest began to constrict and her breath all but left her. Clara began to shake as she bit the insides of her lips shut and tried to not cry. John's chest rumbled as he woke up, taking note of how heavily she was shivering.

"Hey, I'm here," he murmured. He moved his hand until it was making slow circles on her back, comforting her gently. "You're alive, Clara. We're in your office right now and soon we'll be in a house again. We're going to make it."

"I couldn't stop myself," she wheezed, her voice barely above a whisper. "They just… came down…"

"Yes, but you _made it_ , which was something that happened despite what came down." John kept his eyes closed as he cocooned his limbs around his wife, trying to make her feel as secure as possible. "What's your plan, Clara Smith?"

"I plan… I plan to make it through this war," she replied hoarsely. "We'll have a house again. When the war ends, you will go back to working on books and I will keep on teaching. There's going to be so many kids we won't know what to do with them all."

"You'll teach?" he asked. John already knew her answers to all the questions he was asking, but repeating what she was planning, what she was controlling, helped Clara calm down. "Who will care for the kids before they go to school?"

"The cot, the play mat, and you," she replied. "My dad will still complain about the trains and government whenever he comes to visit, and you will get a soufflé on your birthday, and our children will never know war or want, and we _will_ be very, very happy."

"…and damn everyone who says otherwise," he said. "Twelve kids?"

That got a laugh out of her, small but there. "Way too many."

"Only one?"

"If that is nature's limit; I'd rather have more." Her voice was leveling out as she was beginning to physically calm.

"Boys or girls?"

"Healthy."

"Ours, or former students?"

"Whatever happens."

"We'll rebuild the house on Wissforn," John assured. "We'll get that sixth generation in, as long as I've got the cornerstone and you." His mind wandered to a small wooden crate in the bottom of one of the cupboards, where indeed one of the old stones from his house was being kept safe for when he could put it on their new mantle. "You are stronger than they think you are, Clara. I know this for a fact."

"You sure…?" Her voice wavered uneasily and he pulled her head so it rested flush against his chest.

"More sure than anything in my life," he replied. She was still shaking, but less so than before. He knew there was a chance she'd still be shivering for a while yet, but as long as the worst convulsions had passed, it was only a matter of time her chills would subside. "Goodnight, Clara. I'm right here."

"Goodnight, John… and thank you." She pressed her face further into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her cheek as her mind raced. Grey and rubble, injury and what-ifs, filled her thoughts as she attempted to clear her mind. Instead she tried to think about her husband, their life, and what they wanted to do with the years ahead. As silly as it felt, she concentrated on the future that had been put on-hold the moment they signed their marriage license and shifted into park as they hid in the cellar. It was the only thing she could really hope for, despite all lack of certainty, and the only thing she really had aside from the body piled up against hers that smelled of hard work and entirely too many tins of beans. Clara knew though, that as long as she had John she was the luckiest girl in the world, and that they were going towards the uncertainty together.

Eventually her thoughts began to blur together and her eyesight became hazy. She wrested an arm free from John's grip to pull down the blanket from the back of the couch. It covered them awkwardly, but it was enough to help keep her warm, the final touch before she drifted off into sleep.


	27. October 1941

Really, the Smiths weren't really sure what all else they could do to get it through people's thick skulls that Clara's office was now their _home_.

Being that they had not yet been married even a year and a half, with no children either toddling around or on the way, and both being of good health, they had been put towards the bottom of the waiting list when it came to new available housing. Their residence was, for the time being, Clara's tiny and cramped office, which was admittedly better than a tent or a shelter. Wissforn Road was being completely redone as a housing scheme, forcing away the legality of John's charred land deed and making him _livid_ in the process. After a few weeks he had calmed down and let the matter go; the people who would be moving into the houses there were currently in the assembly hall and cafeteria: children and pensioners that needed to be out of the school and tents before the winter chill took hold. To signify his acceptance that he would be waiting until flat blocks could be properly built the following year, he had taken the welcome mat he had salvaged from their house and placed it right outside the office door.

However… just because it said ' _welcome'_ did not mean that he necessarily was willing to be welcom _ing_.

John had Clara playfully pinned down on the couch early one evening, nipping at her ear while she quietly giggled at his tickling day-old beard. The 'OCCUPIED' sign had been put up and the lock latched and both were ready to fit in as much naughtiness as they could muster until it was time for dinner. He was folding himself into the limited couch space, readying his position, when a loud knock rapped upon the office door.

"Oh great," John grumbled, freezing in his place hovering above his wife. Clara chuckled slightly and turned her head towards the door.

"Who is it?"

"Mrs. Smith?" The voice was tiny and thin, all nerves and tears. "Mrs. Smith, can I come in?"

"Just a moment," Clara replied. She turned back to John and hissed "Get off; Gerry is missing his mum and his dad's still at work."

"Alright…" John agreed. He let go of Clara and she slipped out from underneath him to open the door. It involved hanging his feet over the armrest, but John occupied the entirety of their couch-bed so that the only place the boy had to go was Clara's desk chair. She crouched down in front of her student as he sat there and sniffled.

"M-Mrs. Smith…" the boy whimpered. "I want to go home."

"I know you do, sweetie, but your new home has to be built first," his teacher cooed. She stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him down. "You can't go somewhere that doesn't exist yet. Mr. Smith and I can't go home either. We don't enjoy living in the office as much as you enjoy living in the assembly hall."

"Yeah, well that's 'cause the office smells like old-people farts," he frowned. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, allowing Clara to bite her lips in an attempt to not laugh. John glared at the child, insulted.

"Well your farts don't exactly smell like the fresh Highland air," he snapped. Clara scrunched up her face and shot him a look that _demanded_ he stay quiet.

"Don't worry," she said. "Say… how about we go down to the kitchens and see if dinner's ready? Are you hungry?"

The boy nodded and slid off the chair, reaching for Clara. She took his hand and led him out the door, making sure to give her grumpy husband an unamused, clearly irritated expression before closing the door. John grumbled to himself and rolled over on the couch—maybe what he needed was a sign that read "KEEP OUT", as well as the "OCCUPIED" one, in order to get some alone time with his wife.

Yes. That was _precisely_ what he needed.

* * *

Later on, after dinner and the order for lights out throughout the building, the Smiths were back in their temporary accommodations, ready to spend the night together. John, sporting only his pants and vest, was once again hovering over Clara, gently holding her wrists on either side of her head as he made a slow trail of nipping kisses down her throat. He let go and allowed his hands to trail further down as blouse fabric impeded his movement. After unfastening buttons he began to move lower, kissing chest and stomach as his hands hiked the hem of her skirt to her hips. He unhooked her garters and slowly rolled one of her stockings off, sitting up to do so.

He flinched slightly at the sound of another knock at the door—the lock in the knob was engaged and he did not need to worry. "Go away," he ordered, staring into his wife's loving gaze.

"Mr. Smith, is Mrs. Smith there?" It was Gerry, the same high and watery-voiced child as before.

"She's busy; go bother your father," John replied. He bent down and kissed the top of Clara's foot as he freed it from the second stocking. Tossing the garment aside, he began to move up her leg; his eyes stayed glued to hers, one end of his mouth twitched into a grin.

"…but Dad's sleeping. Please?" The door rattled slightly as the child tugged on the knob.

"It can wait until morning," Clara breathed. Her face grew red as she attempted to hold in her sighs. "Go to sleep, Gerry." As John ran a hand along the inside of her leg, making sure the path for his lips was clear, she took a cushion and covered her face, moaning into it.

"…but Mrs. Smith… I can't sleep…" the boy whined. He tried opening the door again, pulling and pushing on the doorknob with as much force as his tiny body could muster.

John was halfway into Clara's inner thigh as Gerry's efforts paid off and the lock in the knob gave way, allowing the boy to tumble into the room. He landed flat on his face, giving the adults enough time to gasp and dart away from one another before he picked himself off the floor and shined his torch around the room.

"Gerry, what is the _matter_?" Clara asked. She was nearly gulping down air out of fright, clutching her blouse shut and holding the hem of her skirt at her knees as she sat up on the couch.

"I told you… I can't sleep…" the boy said. He shined his torch onto the bulky tangle of blanket at the end of the couch—John sat there cocooned in modesty, his brows furrowed in a raging glare as they poked out from underneath the bunched-up fabric. "Can't you sleep either, Mr. Smith?"

"I can sleep _just **fine**_ ," he growled. "I just happen to sleep better with my wife. _Alone_. With no one _else_."

"Well I can't sleep; it's too noisy downstairs with Mr. Andersen's snoring," the kid declared. Without so much as asking for permission, he climbed up onto the couch and nuzzled into Clara's side. She exhaled heavily and put an arm around the clueless intruder in half a hug.

"Hey now, none of that," she said gently. With one hand, she started to button her blouse up again as the other held the child's head in place. "How about we get you a drink of water, hmm? From down in the kitchens? Maybe see if they have a little spare milk to warm?"

"I'd like that, please," he said. The child hopped back off the couch and waited for Clara to join him at the door. She looked back apologetically at her husband before she left, hoping the red in his face would disappear by the time she returned. Slipping barefoot into her heels, she took her student's hand and left—his welfare was her _job_ , after all.

* * *

The following morning, more than a few people noticed there was a lock missing from the outside gate. No one understood why anyone would lift a _lock_ , of all things, especially one to a primary school, making the mystery one that was the subject of much debate. Eventually, after a few days, it was decided someone must have sold it for scrap metal. There was plenty of the stuff still being sold from the housing rubble, and who was to say the lock had not been one to a destroyed garden gate? That was fine, they guessed, if that was the _only_ thing to have been lifted, and while it was annoying that the school needed to buy a new gate lock, it was done anyways.

Little did they know, that if they merely went up the stairs into Mrs. Smith's office and looked at her door, they'd find the missing lock hastily having been bolted on in the middle of the night. Except there was the fact that no one had access to Mrs. Smith's office at-will anymore, save for the Smiths themselves. Even after messing with the handle, the best one could get was a wispy "in a minute" from Mrs. Smith, followed normally by purposefully loud gasps and moans and all manner of indecent things. Those who understood what sort of indecency was taking place just beyond the door usually left immediately, those that did not left of their own volition after being bored of waiting, and the remaining few, usually a small child with a sterile perception of romance, risked falling asleep before Mrs. Smith finally opened the door with her hair disheveled and a hazy expression on her face. With a kiss to the forehead and a pat on the back the child would be turned away, while the heavy latch secured the door once more.

It was no mystery or rumor that the Smiths were deeply in love. Sometimes, it was just that it was a little bit too apparent for comfort. They were living in a primary school office, for crying out loud.


	28. November 1941

Clara sat at her desk, writing up the rough draft for her students' history exam while they read quietly at their desks. It was Friday, and they had gotten ahead of schedule academically, leaving them with an incredible amount of free time. They were at least well-behaved—something not often said of small children with no classwork to do—and their teacher was allowed full concentration on her work.

' _What turned fifty this year?_ ' she wrote down. Clara tapped her pencil lightly on the paper. She knew they had gone over a wide assortment of things, from penalty kicks in football to the kinetoscope, to the London-Paris telephone system, and even Sherlock Holmes. There was bound to be a sassy answer, such as one's dad or uncle, but she was prepared to face them.

Suddenly, Clara's eyes went wide and she stopped tapping the pencil on the paper. ' _John's birthday is this weekend. He's going to be **fifty**_.' She allowed her head to sink to the desktop, letting out a small groan.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Smith?" one of the students asked. Clara did not remove her forehead from the desk as she sighed in indignation.

"Mr. Smith's birthday is on Sunday," she replied. "I usually bake something for him on special days, but I don't have my own oven anymore."

"I'm sure you can borrow the kitchen's," piped up another student. "My mam did when it was Dad's birthday. How old is Mr. Smith?"

Clara lifted her head and slid her forearms between the desk and her chin; the entire class was now staring at her. "He's going to be fifty."

Now _that_ got them whispering. Fifty? That was a big year. Some of them had even attended fiftieth birthday parties for family members. Gosh, that was even one of the topics in class this term—what things were fifty years old (or twenty-five, or seventy-five, or even a hundred)—so that must have been a sign.

"Oh! Can we throw him a party?" asked one boy in the front row. "When my granny turned fifty, we threw her a party!"

"Mr. Smith doesn't like parties, or his birthday," Clara shrugged. She sat upright in her chair and swiveled slightly. "I don't know if throwing him a birthday party would be a good idea, especially since we are still living in my office."

"That makes it perfect!" the boy insisted. "He works with my dad, and Dad always works on Saturdays, and if _we_ work all day on Saturday, we can give him a surprise party!"

Clara rolled her eyes and chuckled. "And who would we be inviting to this party, Benjamin?"

"Uh… us?" he said sheepishly.

"…and why is that?"

Benjamin looked down at his desk and allowed his face to turn bright red. He sat there for a moment, until the girl one seat over replied and made him jump in surprise.

"We heard that you've got a copy of _Snow White_ in your office!" she said. "Is it true that Mr. Smith has a copy of _Snow White_ that made it through the bombing?"

"Yes, it's true, but…"

"…and is it also true that two years ago he let some of your London students watch it?"

"…as a surprise, but…"

"If Mr. Smith likes _Snow White_ , and his copy is still good, and since you live right here, maybe he will let us watch it if we throw him a party! He can't tell us 'no' if we throw him a party!" the girl explained. Ah-ha. So they had been trying to figure out how to get a film screening out of him, and his birthday was the perfect excuse.

"That's an interesting idea," Clara smirked. "Does everyone want to try throwing Mr. Smith a party so we can watch a movie?"

The entire class burst into excited agreement. Of _course_ they wanted to watch a movie, a _fun_ movie at that, and if throwing a party for Mr. Smith, who seemed all grumbles and eyebrows and frowns, was all it took to do something fun, then so be it.

"Alright then, since we have the time to spare, how about if we get to planning?" This sent the class into a tizzy. This was a _thing_. An actual, absolute _thing_ that was _happening_. Everyone started shouting ideas at Mrs. Smith as she stood and approached the blackboard to write down jobs and who was assigned what.

This was going to be _great_.

* * *

That night, when the building was dark and the upstairs quiet, the Smiths sat contently in their office-home. John was sketching off a photo from the paper—some photo taken in America of newly-finished faces carved into the side of a mountain—while Clara sat curled up into his side, reading a book. She placed her finger between the pages to mark her spot and shifted in place.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"What would you like for your birthday?"

"You," he replied, not even hesitating. "I just want to stay home with my wife all day, nothing else. It'd be an improvement from last year, where I only got you half the day. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering, since I can't make you a birthday soufflé this year in our kitchen," she said, only a partial lie. "That's all you want? To be knackered?"

"I wasn't insisting on going that far, but knackered would be a lovely gift," John smiled. He lightly kissed the top of Clara's head, squeezing the arm around her waist in a hug. "We're alive and together; considering what we've been through, what more could I want?"

"That is a good point," Clara nodded. "I suppose knackered it is. At least you're a cheap date."

"Got to know how to be cheap on an artist's salary, my dear," John chuckled. He put down his sketchpad and pencil on the floor and leaned so as to kiss his wife behind her ear. "Though, I think it'd be kind of fun to get an early peek at my present."

"Okay, just this once," she laughed, setting the book down and turning to face him. Clara pushed him down onto his back and began to kiss him slowly. He squirmed underneath her as she unbuttoned his shirt and rolled his vest up, beginning a trail down his chest while she worked on his trousers. She smiled in satisfaction against his stomach as his fingers shakily left her hips and instead wound themselves in her hair.

' _Perfect. He doesn't suspect a thing._ '

* * *

"How about this, Mrs. Smith?" a child asked, holding up a piece of paper. Clara came down off the stepladder to inspect the drawing and nodded.

"That's very good, Elsie. Have you seen the movie before?"

"Uh-huh! Twice!" the girl giggled. She ran off and taped the drawing to the back wall of the classroom, where there were close to a dozen crayon drawings of things pertaining to the Snow White fairy tale. Most of the rest of the students were sitting at their desks, making streamers of thin paper links. Another little girl ran up to the teacher, her set of links in-hand.

"How are these, Mrs. Smith?" she beamed.

"Lovely; now hold on to them while I climb back up," Clara grinned. She went back to the top step and bent down to take the end of the streamer from the girl, promptly pinning it in place above the blackboard. Quickly, she descended the stepladder and moved it to the other side of the board, taking the other streamer end and securing it as well.

"We got the apples!" shouted a boy as he came into the room. Following him were two of his classmates, both of whom were carrying a small crate full of the fruit. "Miss Beryl says we can't have the milk until later, but we can have the apples now!"

"Excellent, now put them by my office door for the moment," Clara said. She stepped down to the floor again and headed for the main door. "Okay, now stay here everyone while I go borrow Mr. Greene's projector! We need one with sound if this is going to work!"

* * *

"Come on, Johnny, why don't you come with us?" a coworker asked. A small group of men were gathered close to his locker, insistent that he join them.

"Sorry, but my place is at home," John apologized. It was empty as far as apologies went, but they didn't need to know that.

"You never know—you might actually like being in the Home Guard," one of the other men frowned. "It's not like you never participated in military exercises before."

"…and it's not like I ever want to participate in military exercises again unless I absolutely _have_ to," John frowned. He held his tongue—what he had _wanted_ to say was that he was not about to play at war and youth when he already knew what entailed. Although he knew they served a real purpose, he also knew that too many members of the Home Guard were there to relive their glory days, that group especially. To him, there was nothing glorious about playing war games in one's backyard simply because they were not allowed to participate in the real one.

"Oh, yeah, that's right, you've got that pretty young thing to go back to," another man scoffed. "Sometimes I still have problems remembering that you're married, and to a sprightly creature to boot. I don't know how you keep up with her."

"The same way I kept up with my French fiancée, who I know you refuse to believe existed," John quipped. He finished placing his coveralls in his locker and shut it. "Now if you lads will excuse me, I have my wife to attend to for the rest of the weekend." He then turned on his heel and left, not dignifying the group with further conversation. The bus was pulling away from the stop as he exited the building, causing him to shrug and begin to walk over to the school.

' _Clara, my loving wife… a man couldn't ask for a better birthday gift_ ,' John smirked internally as he approached the building. They were going to need to make sure they engaged the new lock, as there were still a few lingering people camped out in the building, but he was going to make sure that it would get full use from the moment they retired after dinner until the moment he left for work on Monday. He entered the school and ascended the staircase, casually climbing up to the second floor.

"Oh, there you are," Clara said as John entered the corridor. He looked and saw her standing outside her classroom door, which was dark inside with the drapes drawn and the lights off. So they were going to start before dinner, hmm? That was a surprise. She crept up on her toes when he reached her and gave him quick kiss, cradling his face with her hand and keeping his eyes on her. "I was beginning to wonder where you ran off to."

"Some blokes at work just trying to get me to play soldiers with them, nothing more," he grunted. John pulled Clara into his arms, placing his hands on her rear end as leaned into a kiss. "I'm just about ready to unwrap my birthday present."

"Patience, patience," Clara laughed. She playfully pushed John away and took his hand in hers, leading him into the darkened classroom. She turned on the light switch and twenty-three children all jumped up from their hiding place just out of sight of the hall from the doorway. The room was fully-decorated now in the colorful paper streamers and hand-drawn pictures of fairy tale stories.

"SURPRISE!" they shouted, startling John. He stumbled backwards slightly, and would have fallen straight into the hall if Clara had not been there to stop him. "Happy birthday, Mr. Smith!" The children all gathered around him, drawing the man further into the room and away from his wife. A small soufflé, fallen and overcooked, was placed on Clara's desk with a tiny candle stuck on the top. The children all looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something.

"Umm… what's going on…?" he asked, eyes wide and eyebrows halfway into his forehead. Hesitantly, he poked at the soufflé to make sure it was just that and nothing else.

"The kids heard it was your birthday and they couldn't stand the thought of a fiftieth birthday without a party," Clara chuckled. She pulled a box of matches from her desk drawer and lit the candle.

"…but…" John tried to protest, but was drowned out by the students all breaking out into singing him _Happy Birthday_. Once they finished, they all leaned in closer and stared at the candle flame. John paused, knitting his brow in apprehension, and blew out the candle. The kids cheered and went to their desks, where their apples were waiting alongside a carton of milk.

"Eat up, birthday boy," Clara smiled as she slid into her husband's lap. She produced her own apple from the desk drawer and bit into it before landing a kiss on his cheek. "We were thinking that maybe after this we could clear the floor and watch a great piece of cinematic art… unless you think a reenactment of one of your books will do."

"…but Clara…" John hissed, low and urgently. He leaned in towards her, his lips barely grazing her ear. "What about ' _knackered_ '?"

"We'll have time for that later, after the kids go back home," she grinned. "For now, I think it's time we go back to when we were dating and have a movie night with the kids." She pat her husband's lap, mindful of how poorly-timed the tightness in his trousers was, and kissed his lips before hopping up and going to her office to procure their entertainment for the early evening. "You know where the staff loo is, in case you need to go before the movie?"

"…yes. Clara, I really don't see how…"

"Hush," she said from inside the office. Clara poked her head out and gave her husband a sarcastic frown. "Just eat your soufflé and be happy we even have anything left from your collection."

Unable to argue with that, John watched as his wife disappeared back into the office to continue rummaging around. He looked down at his soufflé, noting how over-browned and malformed it was, and picked up his fork to being eating. The children at their desks smiled at him, giggling in anticipation of the film to come.

And that was how John Smith started his first birthday party in over twenty years. Not much had changed—the film was now colorized and boasting a soundtrack, and the guests were a bit younger than he'd like—and he guessed, in the end, he was fine with that.


	29. December 1941

The freshly-opened pub was lively as beer once again flowed freely from the tap. Another ship was finished, and a completed ship meant that drinks were on the company tab that night. John sat at a table with the other riveters, long ago having forgotten how many beers he had downed. His face felt warm and his head was swimming, yet he did not care.

"I'm tellin' yeh Ver, it's not gonna make a damn difference," he said, his words mushing fiercely. "Mark my words: America bein' innit now won't make a _lick_ o' difference."

"…but the last time the Yanks decided to join in we were done in less than two years," Verity argued from across the table. She had less in her and her words did not slur together, but was drunk enough to snap back. "I wasn't a child then; I remember."

"Yeh was a teenager—don't go tellin' me shit," John retorted. He wagged his finger, as if to make a point. "I saw a boy, just a boy, an' he was from… Macon. Yeh… Macon… wherever that is. Never figured it out, 'cause his first day the idiot got picked off right in front o' me while botherin' t'stand straight up. They need time t'make our mistakes first. Once that happens, then we talk."

"I'm still saying the war will be over before my Nancy enters secondary," Verity insisted. "That's two and a half years. I think I'm being more than generous."

"I think you both need to go home," Collette sighed. She propped her chin up on the palm of her hand and looked at the very last of her first—and only—pint, rolling the bottom rim of the glass on the table out of sheer boredom. "At this rate you're only going to drink yourselves even stupider than you already are."

"Fuck off, Collette. You don't know what we're talking about," Verity hissed, backhanding the younger woman's shoulder. Collette frowned and took it, rubbing her sore spot gently, while John on the other hand…

"Don't yeh touch 'er," he growled wagging his finger exaggeratedly. "She did nothin' wrong."

"No John, really, it's okay…"

"Bollocks," he hiccupped. "Don't yeh fuckin' pretend that anyone can push yeh around just 'cause yer pretty an' sweet an' wouldn't hurt a mad dog that was gorin' yeh."

"Ah, so Collette _is_ your favorite," chuckled a voice. The three looked to see as Steve, another worker from the yards, sat down at their table with barely a buzz to him. "I always knew it was her."

"Well mah favorite certainly ain't _yoo_ ," John snarled. He squinted in the pub's low light, further obscured by the haze of cigarettes that clung thicker than most nights. "If I hadda niece, outta t'whole lot, it'd be her. I'm lucky mah wife likes her, or there could be problems."

"Oh… ' _niece'_ … so that's how you refer to it, and right under the missus's nose too," Steve nodded. "Well, I guess you do have to keep them separate…"

"Steve…" Verity warned. John blinked at them, wondering what was going on. His thought processes had not regained enough speed to fully digest Steve's tone as the women did.

"It's not like that," Collette said resolutely. "John really is like an uncle to me—I never had an uncle before, just an aunt."

"Ooooh, you call him ' _uncle'_ , so I guess that means the wife gets ' _daddy'_ ," Steve smirked. He went to take a sip of his beer when he heard wood scrape on wood and suddenly he was lifted to his feet by the scruff of his collar. John glared at him with a red face and furrowed brow.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

"John, put him down," Verity demanded. Her request went unheard as John narrowed his glare.

"What… did you say…?" John repeated. Steve looked quickly around the room; most of the people in the immediate vicinity were staring at them, pondering the best time to take their pints and run.

"Do you think I'm here to judge you?" he laughed, trying to make light of the situation. "You got two pretty young ladies at your disposal—if anything I'm envious."

A rumbling growl came from John's throat as he thought over what to do. After a moment he put Steve down and turned around, ready to find another corner of the pub to drink in; he was far from worth the trouble. Collette came up to him and cautiously put a hand on his arm.

"Come on, let's get you back to Clara…"

"You ever get them mixed up? You'd think the wrong name at the wrong time would be easy enough when you're in the moment… or do their accents help with that?" Steve grinned. He was going to continue, however John spun back around and firmly landed his fist in the man's jaw, sending him staggering backwards in surprise. The entire pub stared at him as he stood there glowering at the now-bloodied annoyance, nostrils flared and chest heaving with his heavy breaths.

If he was sober, he wouldn't have referred to it as one of his smarter moves.

* * *

The office was tranquil and calm as Clara reclined on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her and _A Christmas Carol_ in-hand. A short side table sat beside her with a pad of paper and a cup of tea, both within easy reach. She was going to read the story aloud to her class the following week in preparation for Christmas, even letting the children help read parts if they wished. If she shortened some of the other lessons they were sure to finish before the holiday.

She was just about to make a note on the Ghost of Christmas Present when a soft knock interrupted her.

"Who is it?"

"It's Collette; special delivery," was the answer. Clara put the book down and opened the door, her eyes going wide at the sight before her. John was slumped over on his coworker's shoulders, beaten up and passed out from injuries and alcohol. Immediately Clara opened the door all the way and helped Collette drag John over to the couch and lay him down.

"What on earth happened?" she asked as she pulled the blanket out from under her husband and tossed it on the desk chair for safe keeping. She then worriedly turned towards her visitor. "You're not hurt too, are you?"

"No… John was getting a little protective of us after a few too many, is all. I'm fine," Collette shrugged. She looked at Clara, who was a full head shorter than her, and frowned. "Do you need any help with him? He's kinda big…"

"No, thank you, I'm fine…" Clara said. She watched John sleeping peacefully for a moment before turning back to Collette. "What was he being protective about?"

"Some drunk arse from work accused him of sleeping with the both of us—no big deal," Collette replied. "I get accused of that sometimes twice a week, and that's been going on longer than you've been around. It's nothing new."

"…but it's not like that," Clara frowned, narrowing her eyes. "I know for a fact it's not like that… _people_ know for a fact it's not like that…"

"We know that, and most everyone else knows that, but you know the trouble-makers. If there's something they can latch on to and distort, the littlest thing, they'll find it, even if they're not a problem or have no truth to them." Collette shook her head, knowing that arguing the point was moot. "They're good at that, especially that one. I wouldn't worry too much."

"Thank you for bringing him home," Clara sighed sadly. "Would you like some tea or…?"

"No, I should get home myself. Mam's expecting me for a late supper. See you later, Clara."

"Bye, Collette."

She watched as the woman left the office and the classroom and vanished into the hallway. Once she was sure she was gone, Clara turned towards John and groaned in exasperation. She wrenched the boots off her catatonic husband and sat him up in order to take off his jumper and shirt. When that was done she began to rummage around in the cupboards for some iodine; the cut above his eye was going to need to be cleaned whether he was conscious or not.

After Clara splashed some iodine on a kerchief she began to gently run it over John's cut. Almost immediately he woke, wincing in pain. He grabbed his head and curled up in a ball, sinking down to lay on his side. His head _throbbed_ , and his arms and upper body felt numb.

"Ow… _feck_ …" he cursed. Clara folded her arms and sat down in her office chair, waiting for him to notice his surroundings. "Wait… Clara? Why am I… where is everyone?"

"Collette brought you home," she snapped. " _Why_ did you think it was a good idea to have enough to drink so that someone—someone who _isn't_ your wife—had to drag you home after _fighting_?"

"You don't understand, Clara…"

"What don't I understand?"

"It was Steve… that _tit_ …"

"Last I can recall there are several men named Steve at your work that happen to exhibit tit-like behavior on a regular basis." She kept her stare blank as she waited for clarification.

"The one with the chip on his shoulder, Verity's age, no glasses."

"The Scouse or the Highlander?"

"Highlands."

"For Christ's sake, John… that's nothing more than a schoolyard bully." Clara held John's face steady as she continued to clean the cut above his eye. Her voice went from short and clipping to more quiet and calm. "Collette told me what he said."

"That I selfishly horde young women and because of that, you must call me something you don't call the man you're married to…?"

"Yeah. Like? I want to hear it."

John muttered under his breath, too garbled for Clara to hear.

"I'm waiting."

"…daddy."

"I see," Clara nodded. "I think next time he tries telling you that, you should say that the only way I'll call you that is if I'm talking to our children." She wiped the excess iodine off John's forehead with the clean bit of kerchief and kissed the tip of his nose.

"…but we don't have kids."

"Exactly. Now don't you worry about me or Collette. She's a big girl; I think she can take care of herself."

John sat up and began to rotate his shoulders, regretting letting the drink get the best of him. "If no one's going to defend your honor, then who will?"

"I don't know—Collette looks like she can protect her own honor and possibly mine while she's at it. I mean, she hauled your sorry arse across town and up a flight of stairs."

"…and that's why she's my favorite," John chuckled. "I don't mind starting a brawl with Highland Steve for my favorites." He spread out his arms for Clara to come into his lap for a hug. "Come on, my favorite wife."

She stared at him, crossing her legs and tapping her foot in mid-air. "And Collette's your favorite…?"

"Niece. The niece I never had."

"I see."

"The daughters I never had are up in a stately home for Christmas this year. They're my favorites too."

Clara groaned and rubbed her forehead to ward off the oncoming headache. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd almost say you had a type."

"Only according to the ones that don't know me well enough," John said. "I'm fond of people who are worth being fond of; not my fault they're near-all girls right now."

"Then why did Collette also say she's been accused of sleeping with you since before I arrived in Clydebank? She's older than me, John—how do you refer to a woman older than your wife as your niece?"

John groaned and finally let his arms drop to his side. "Before you met me, when you were dating, didn't you meet men your age, my age, in-between, that you liked enough but only like a friend or an odd uncle? Did you ever grow close to a teacher in school who only wanted you to do well in life?"

"You're not Collette's uncle or her professor…" Clara reasoned.

"I might as well be; she used to run with a girl that lived on Wissforn as a child, and although I didn't know her name, she knew mine. Always would say hello if we crossed paths, our Collette, and despite the fact I hadn't seen her in nearly ten years, she remembered me clear as could be her first day on the job. She invited me over for Christmas dinner that year, because she knew I was alone. How can you not be fond of someone like that?" He stared at the corner of a pillow as he rubbed the corner between his thumb and forefinger. "If I had a nephew, or even a son, around her age, I'd try to arrange that match because then she'd be taken care of and treated well. I watched her grow—you don't want the ones you've watched grow, not unless you were growing alongside them. It's not right."

"So then Gwen and Ruby…?"

"Clever girls, sweet girls, smart girls that will have the world at their feet when the war is done and things are better. Again, if I had wee nephews or sons…"

"…and me?"

"…a surprise." He looked away sheepishly and shifted in his seat, hyperaware of how the conversation was going. "I wasn't looking for anyone when I met you. There was no one, old or young, that I was thinking of when you lit that spark in me. I never chased you out of my garden as a child, I never minded you while your mam popped off for the butcher's… I never even knew your parents when we were children or your dad when we were soldiers. All I know is that the fact you're young is a coincidence—I'd still love you if you were sixty and sagging and I became a stepdad to adults and skipped straight to Granddad. It makes sense."

"Does it?" Clara asked.

"Of course it does," he scoffed. "You're my wife and it doesn't matter who or what I am to anyone else, because I'm _your_ husband and no one else's. I'd be pretty shit at vows if I was nothing less."

"Be careful about who you call your favorites then," she warned, rolling her eyes in a scoff. "One of these days someone is going to get the wrong idea, and you won't want to be around when that happens, drunk or sober. Christ… if you keep on getting your arse handed to you like this you won't even have the chance to see me sagging."

"I swear that if I do make it to your sixtieth, I will be more in love with you than I am right now, because every day I'm more enamored than the last," John smiled. He lifted up his arms again. "I may be able to see the worth in other women, no matter their age, but my type is _you_ , Clara Smith, and no other."

"Then stop getting into pub brawls on other people's behalf."

"It was half yours too." He extended his arms wider, silently begging for a cuddle. Clara stood up and tossed the blanket in his face.

"Sleep it off, John," she said. "I have work to do."

John sadly scrunched his lanky frame into the couch just too short to be comfortable and watched Clara reading at her desk as he drifted off to sleep, aided by the same extra pints that had gotten him into trouble in the first place. As soon as Clara heard her husband's soft snoring she spun around in her chair and made the few steps it took to bend down and kiss him on the part of his forehead not swathed with iodine. She rather disliked when the rawer parts of her husband's temperament attempted to mix with what she normally knew, and the last thing Clara wanted him to know was that she felt flattered and proud of his dedication to those he cared about most. His fierce loyalty would get him into more trouble one day if he didn't watch himself, but she guessed that was something to work on in the future.

She cradled his face in her hand, watching him sleep peacefully before returning to her notes still sprawled out on her desk. At least, she knew, she never need be concerned about her husband's definition of commitment, even if the warnings and the jests never stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead and imagine a 26yo John, up to his eyeballs in the First World War, sharing a trench with some Americans from the Old South, getting the bajeezus shelled out of them and arguing about tea preparation all the while. I dare you.


	30. May 1942

For something that had been over a year in the making, they spent their last morning in the office in relative silence, packing the remainder of their belongings. John had already relocated the boxes with the help of a coworker's borrowed car one afternoon the week prior, and now that everything was settled and accounted for, they were ready to take the final step in the moving process.

"Ready?" John asked as Clara buckled her suitcase shut.

"Ready," she echoed. Arching on her toes, she kissed him lightly on the lips before they made their way out of the rosemary-scented office and exited the building to catch a bus.

The ride was thankfully quick, with Clara and John holding hands the entire time. When they got off, they still had to walk a couple of blocks before they came to a grey, dismal-looking building.

"So this is it, huh?" Clara asked as they walked up to the flat block. John temporarily put down his suitcase in order to rotate his wrist. Once it was back in his hand he looked down at her and nodded.

"Yeah. Come on—let's go in."

Entering the flat block, Clara was quick to note the lack of an elevator as they walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. At the end of the hall was a door, which John produced a key for. He opened the door and held it open for Clara to walk in.

The flat was small and tidy, leaving little room for their imagination. There was just a sitting room, a cramped-looking kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. It was furnished, with a new sofa and armchairs and tables and things that were squat, ugly, and made the space seem even tinier. It was a far cry from the house, but in the opposite direction it was also a large difference from Clara's office.

"Well, not much we can do, can we?" Clara chuckled as she looked at the drab utility furniture that had been neatly set up around the flat. "We didn't exactly have priority listing thanks to living in my office."

"The fact we had your office was a miracle unto itself," John said as he closed the door. "I'd still rather cram the both of us in there where it was cramped and awkward than know there were other people who needed a home worse than us huddled in that drafty gymnasium."

"This is true," Clara agreed. It was less than ten steps from the front door to the bedroom, where she brought her suitcase and put it on the end of the bed as she began to put her clothes away in the wardrobe. Only a couple minutes passed before she had to open up the window and breathe in deeply as a soft breeze came rolling in. Everything about the flat was small and confining, which was more than a little unnerving. John was not even tall enough to duck his head when walking around their old home built centuries ago, yet here he threatened to graze his hair against the door frame when he walked in to join her.

John looked at Clara and could tell his wife was beginning to crack. He pulled her over towards the bed and sat down, placing her gently in his lap. She sighed heavily into his chest as he rubbed her back and held her close.

"What are we doing here?" she asked. "This isn't us. This isn't our future. We can't raise a family here after the war's done and you're back to illustrating books. We need the house… we need _a_ house…"

"…and we'll find one. Just for now, we play the hand we've been dealt. This place is cheap and we can save a lot by living here. Even if the war's done by Christmas, we will have saved more than we would have otherwise and will be that much closer to a down payment."

"It's _shit_ —places like this are death knolls, John," Clara groaned. "Please tell me we won't be stuck here until your hair is white and mine is going grey and we've stacked children in the sitting room in order to keep our privacy. You were able to stay in your house because you inherited it; this is a constant chunk out of our living expenses…"

"It will be fine, I promise," he assured her. "Our bairns will know more than four rooms from their start and life without neighbors above and below. It's not ideal, but we can make it manage for the two of us." He then smiled cheekily. "You know, I've never carried you over the threshold."

"Huh…?" She leaned back and looked at him quizzically.

"Don't tell me you don't know that the groom should carry his bride over the threshold when they enter their home together for the first time," he chuckled. She arched an eyebrow critically, causing him to flash some teeth in his grin. "I let you just walk right in here—this is only where we _live_. This is not our _home_. My house was not our home either, if you can remember that far back."

Clara did think for a moment, trying to go back to their wedding night. She remembered walking up to the house and John holding the door for her. He hadn't even carried her across the bedroom threshold that night, being that they didn't make it past the sitting room sofa the first time around, and for the second (which had most definitely led into the third), she had crept up to the bedroom on her own in order to hang up her clothes and wrap herself in soft linen sheets as she waited for her husband of half a day to catch up.

"See? We were never meant to raise our children there, just as we're not meant to raise our children here. It's fate, Clara. That was my grandparents' home, not ours, and now we're free from it. We're free from all of it."

"John, you idiot," Clara chuckled weakly. She guided his face towards her and kissed him gently. John's hands found her hips as he leaned back into the mattress, ready to christen the room as theirs, however temporary that claim may be. He was nearly sliding his hands underneath her blouse when she broke the kiss and hid her face in his shoulder. "I can't do it… I just can't."

"Of course you can," John assured. "I've got your back and you've got mine, and as long as there's that fact we can do anything." He sat up and maneuvered around so that they could lie lengthwise on the bed. As soon as he was down, Clara was clinging to his chest, a shivering mess. "Hey now, what did I just say?"

"It's over before it had a chance to begin," she said, unable to hear her husband in her state. "I don't want it to be over, but no matter how many times I repeat our plans I can't see them happening anymore…"

"I did not break a sixteen-year dateless streak just for my wife to give up when the deck gets shuffled," he sighed sadly, knowing his Clara was not the Clara that was currently in charge. He rested his chin atop her head and gently leaned so that some of his weight rested on her, a solid comfort. "What would you like me to make for dinner? We'll pick this up later, okay?"

She nodded, pausing before he squeaked out "Just sandwiches."

"Then sandwiches it is," he replied. John closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to trick Clara's body into calming down. Nothing was going to be easy—they both knew that from the start—but they were both going to make it or go down trying, and that was something that he was confident with for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the shitty flat block is mainly for story purposes, I also feel a little bad making it shitty for the sake of drama without personally knowing Clydebank (mainly because I know how it feels when people rag on my hometown without even going there). Just keep into consideration that the Smiths just moved into a flat block that was hastily built, won't even make it ten years before it needs updates, and is one of those buildings that would likely never see the tail end of Thatcherism.


	31. August 1942

In the overall assortment of things, John Smith had never really been fond of weddings.

Much of it did stem from the fact that he hadn't had one of his own for the longest time, he was ready to admit. He'd be invited to weddings not because he was wanted or anything of the sort, but mostly out of some social debt or distant familial obligation. It would have been rude to refuse (where else did he have to be? What could he possibly need to do?), and he'd begrudgingly send the reply back without checking the box for a plus one. Weddings had become events where he dusted off his father's kilt, sat uncomfortably next to some old maid or widow the host family was trying to set him up with, and ate and drank all night on someone else's tab. He ended up not liking weddings, or kilts, or old maids and widows, or anything of the sort, but at least there had been food and drink to dull the pain.

Now John walked into a reception hall for the first time with his wife at his side and boy did it feel _different_.

It was Collette who had gotten married. Sweet, bubbly, cheerful Collette had found herself a sour-looking young man during Hogmanay, one who worked in the offices due to a football injury permanently keeping him from serving King and Country out on the battlefield. His salary alone could probably support the both of them _and_ a house full of children, but Collette refused to quit her job on grounds of she enjoyed what she did. John knew that no matter how constipated the boy looked the fact he seemingly supported this decision and reasoning was signal enough she found a keeper.

"Ugh, I feel like I'm in a painting on the top of a biscuit tin," Clara grumbled as John pulled her chair out for her. She sat down and waited for him to take his seat before continuing, her voice low so that no one could hear in the hushed hall but her husband. "I mean, look at everyone. I thought kilts were a thing a hundred years ago."

"It's like wearing your finest suit, or a tuxedo," John shrugged. "Though I'm not quite sure why you made me get a new one, what with clothing rations only getting stricter. My dad's old one made it through perfectly fine."

"If my husband is going to look silly, then at least he can look silly in a skirt that was made for him."

"It's not a skirt, you English vixen, and of course I look silly. We all do."

Clara shot John a dismissive glance before surveying the rest of the room again. On the far side was the entrance, where Collette and her new husband were greeting guests as they came in. A small stage for a band that had yet to arrive was tucked into the corner and about twenty tables, maybe less, dotted the floor not designated for dancing. They had arrived early, comparatively speaking, so waiting on the rest of their tablemates was almost guaranteed to be loathsomely boring.

"John, can I ask you something?"

"What abouts?" He did not look at her, instead surveying the other guests that were arriving.

"Why did Collette call you 'Uncle John' in front of everyone when we arrived? I know you've said she's like a niece, but are the two of you really related?"

"No… well, now we are, in a way." He tried to shrug off the notion, but it came off as a patented John Smith I-Can't-Be-Bothered-None Twitch. "Her lad, Duncan, is a McCrimmon, as was my mam. We're such distant cousins though that we hardly share any blood, if at all, so she was just teasing. Have you heard the giggle on her?"

"Yes; no wonder you come home from work half-mad if you have to listen to that all day."

"Collette's a charming, sweet girl, but her grip on life's not always the soundest," John sighed. He paused for a moment before chuckling to himself.

"What…?" Clara asked, curious. Her husband kept his eyes on the new arrivals, trying not to look like he was spying.

"Nothing. Just thinking about m' Uncle Jaime—he would've piped this wedding, I bet. Brilliant piper mam's brother was." His eyes grew deep, clearly remembering something from long ago. "If he had half a mind he'd have gone out and made something of himself with it, but he wasn't a man that aspired much in that regard."

"Would…" Clara started softly, "would he have played the bagpipes at our wedding? If things had been different?"

John finally looked over at her and swallowed. She was pouring herself some water from the pitcher on the table, still looking out over the room. Once the pitcher was down on the table, her hands found her mouth and she began to chew her nails. Her face was one that seemed reluctantly sad—too sad for anything as joyous as a wedding. He put a hand on her knee and shook his head.

"No," he replied plainly. Clara looked at him in confusion.

"No…? He'd play for a distant relative but not his own nephew?"

"Uncle Jaime wasn't exactly fond of the English. He was the sort of bloke that wore a kilt every day and talked about the Clearances as if he'd been personally cheated out of land and living." He chuckled and poured his own glass of water. "Though, now that I think about it, he might've liked you."

"…and what would make him change his mind?" Clara deadpanned. John leaned in close to her ear, a playful grin on his face.

"…because this time it's the English countryside getting ravaged nightly."

Clara's eyebrows arched so quickly she almost strained them. "So that's what we're calling it?"

"Och, aye," John smirked, purposefully exaggerating his accent. "I definitely think we can say that there's been some _improving_ when it comes to the state of your love life."

"John, you dirty flirt…!"

"Though I will admit I'd take you over a flock of sheep any day." Clara nearly had to double-take to make sure she heard that correctly.

"That's… comforting…?"

"Oh, hold on my dear, it looks like we've got company." He stood up, holding out his hand as an older couple came walking up to the table. "Stevie! Margaret! It's been a while, hasn't it? Let me introduce you to my wife, Clara. Aye, she's not just made-up on the Christmas cards…"

Thus started a night that could easily be summarized as Clara enduring introduction after introduction; despite being married for multiple years, it seemed like there was no end to old family friends and distant relatives for John to present her to. For some the couple had to grit their teeth and bear the unspoken judgment, though when it came to others—more than had been expected—they were merely happy for them. Some were even genuinely sad that there hadn't been another wedding to attend, to have better broken the monotony of the early war days. Not even when they were on the dance floor was Clara safe, for despite the lacquered hardwood she had to explain her identity to the perfect strangers she had the unfortunate pleasure of dancing with as they changed partners. She had rarely seen John so happy in public though, even if his grin turned a bit manic at times. It was a whirlwind of faces and emotions and Clara was happily, if awkwardly, swept up in it all.

By the time people began filtering out of the hall, it was very late at night. The only thing that seemed to flow freer than conversation had, magically, been the alcohol. Clara, being rather sober on her two pints over the entire night, chuckled to herself as she made sure John, who had accepted more than a couple extra rounds, did not stagger into a wall. She declined the offer of a cab, as the hall was not too far away from their flat. Clara thanked Collette for the lovely evening and wished her and her new husband wealth and happiness and a night just as fun as her own wedding night had been. Collette laughed at that and waved them off.

About a twenty minute walk later, Clara was very grateful that their neighbor had her own engagement for the evening as she tried to roll John along the wall to keep him upright. He looked off into the distance as she paused to open the door to their flat, his eyes glassed over and his expression blissful.

"That was a good time," he said. "You know, I think that's the first wedding I've been to that I actually liked?"

"Considering you were a career bachelor up until two and a half years ago, I can only imagine why," Clara smirked. She opened the door and John leaned down to kiss her. He missed, however, and more fell onto her shoulder than anything. She dragged him in and propped him against the wall, treating it like it was business as usual.

"Best thing that ever happened to me, and don't you forget it," John said. He kicked off his shoes, quite literally, and belched accidentally with his eyes going wide in surprise.

Clara rolled her eyes as her husband stumbled off towards the loo. She went to their bedroom and began to get ready for the night, taking off her clothes now steeped in the smell of smoke and ale and hung them up on some hangers. They would definitely need to air out before being worn again. She was down to her slip, brushing out her hair, when John came into the room. Somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom he had lost his jacket and his waistcoat opened. He waited until Clara put down her hairbrush before scooping her up and lifting her high into the air.

"Oh, John!" she gasped, throwing her arms around his neck for support. She knew he could hold much more than her… though also knew it was a feat better done sober. "Put me down and get ready for bed."

"I am ready," John smiled hazily. He nuzzled his face into her neck and made a rumbling, moaning noise. "Time to do to you what your forebears did to my country… except, you know…"

"Bed first, then I'll consider it," Clara laughed. She rolled her eyes as she felt his smile widen against the nape of her neck. He put her down on the bed and climbed in, still dressed himself. "John, those are your nice clothes."

"I know." He began to trail kisses up her neck and throat until he got to her jaw, where they began to wander all about her face. "Have to exercise the right of first night before the bridegroom rebels."

"You know that would only be relevant if I was Collette, right?" He stopped and lifted his head, looking down at her with a hazy sort of confusion only known to the amazingly idiotic and the stupendously sloshed.

"Now why would I have sex with Collette? I'm talking about her lad getting her to bed and running the opposite direction once he's realized his miscalculation."

"Oh… that sort of rebellion," Clara giggled. She leaned up and left a peck on John's lips. "I was beginning to wonder."

"Och, don't worry Clara Smith. You're the only lass for me," John said before he closed the gap and kissed his wife, straddling her hips gently. Clara set to work on finally removing the waistcoat from her husband and unbuttoning his shirt. She had just finished the last button when he broke the kiss to curl up and moan grumpily into her chest.

"What's wrong?" Clara asked. John grumbled into the space between her breasts and refused to move. Clara ran her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, already having an idea as to what was going on. "John? Tell me."

"Too drunk."

She smiled; suspicions confirmed. "Excuse me?"

"I had a few too many, my liege," he muttered. "I can't ever make up for the Clearances at this rate."

"John, your grandmother's grandfather made a pretty penny building houses because of the Clearances and guaranteed you a home even when you were dead broke. You can't deny that."

"I know. This was supposed to be me showing my appreciation… for that part of it, anyways."

"Well then, would you rather pick this up tomorrow you Caledonian ruffian?"

John grinned and nuzzled his face into his wife's chest. "No rest for the wicked, milady." He took his hand, already resting on her hip, and moved it in order to fumble past the hem of her slip. There was no use wasting a night just because he had a bit too much to drink on someone else's tab. His fingers found the spot they knew well, making Clara shudder. He stroked and flexed and even smiled to himself as her back arched in pleasure.

"This… is what I get… for marrying… a creative…" she breathed, attempting to keep her voice level. The neighbor closer to the stairwell may have been gone for the night, but the neighbors on the other side of the bedroom wall were still most definitely in. "Sometimes I don't know if I love you or hate you."

"Mmm, you don't mean that," he murmured. "You love my resourcefulness—admit it."

"I love _you_ ," Clara said between silent gasps. "I thought that's why I just spent the whole sodding day being paraded around and questioned on everything from my age to my accent." She closed her eyes and sucked in a steadying breath. "Though I think the teenager was flirting with me. Aiden?"

"Adric, and no. That's just how he talks. Fuck, we're lucky he _can_ talk sometimes."

"Don't say that word, not now," she hissed. John paused and thought, his brain thoroughly soup at that point.

"'Sometimes'?"

"No, you bloody-well know what word I mean," she replied, voice straining.

The switch in her husband's brain flicked on and he continued, trailing lazy kisses across her chest. By the time she shakily sank back down on the bed, he was half asleep from drink and found his arm was too heavy to move much further than her hip. He wrapped himself around her, a blanket of limbs and torso.

"How clever," she said shakily. "Maybe ruffians have their uses after all."

"Always knew I'd make Uncle Jaime proud and have the English begging for mercy," John chuckled. Clara sleepily tapped the back of his head and nestled in for the night. She didn't even bother trying to grab for the sheet crumpled at the end of the bed, for the room and her husband were both warm and inviting.

Milady. My _liege_. She was definitely going to have to remember those ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Highland Clearances were a series of real events that were really freaking awful, so please don't start banter with a Scot based on that unless you know for absolute sure they're going to take it in stride. The Smiths are just dirty assholes with one another that get dirtier by the week, so they can get away with it. Also: TTTWLB's version of Jaime McCrimmon, as John's adoring but testy maternal uncle (according to the unreliable filter that is his nephew), is one of my favorite unseen characters ever. He doesn't get more bairns than days of the week here as Idris's bachelor brother, but he's still very much "the man, the myth, the legend".


	32. October 1943

The whistle blew to signal shift's end and John Smith could not have been more excited. It had been an awful day, filled with dropped buckets of rivets and nearly falling off the side of the ship not once, but twice, and to make matters worse he'd gotten into a row with a _gear pulley_ of all things. Despite the fact that so many things had gone wrong, there was a little more lift in John's step than really should have been there.

It was _Date Night_.

"How'd you kill the old John and where'd you dump the body?" Verity asked dryly as they put away their things in their lockers.

"I don't understand _what_ you're talking about," the accused smirked. "You'd be the same way if you were in my shoes." Verity simply scrunched her face in disgust.

"You are such a pervert," she grimaced. "I still think you've got something on that poor girl that keeps her in place. There's no other way."

"Well then it's a good thing I don't need _your_ approval, only her father's," John quipped. He finished stuffing his things away and turned to leave, only to nearly run smack into Collette.

"Hi there Uncle John, Auntie Verity," the younger woman nearly sang. "How are you two doing today?"

"Collette, where have you been?" Verity snapped. "You've been absent _all day_ and you pick now to show up?"

"Wait a second, why'd you call her 'auntie'?" John asked. He looked back and forth between his coworkers in confusion. "You've been calling me 'uncle' for years, but…"

"You haven't seen me at all today because I've been up in the offices talking with the higher powers," Collette grinned. "And, I've been up in the offices because I've been discussing rules and regulations about working in a factory while with child and…"

"Wait, you're pregnant?" Verity cut in. Collette nodded in reply, giving her a hug.

"We were debating about waiting like John and Clara, but we also thought that might as well start now, since sometimes it takes years to have the first one if you're expecting it." She then gave John a hug, laughing at his bewildered expression. "Don't worry; I'll still come 'round for visits."

"Yes, please do," he said on a happy exhale. "If you ever need a sitter for a weekend or something, all you have to do is phone us and we'll treat 'em like our own. Do you know when, or…?"

"The doctor thinks late March, I'm thinking early April, and I'm clear to work until February, as long as I don't push myself—they're moving me up to the office right after Christmas to make sure of that."

"It helps to marry in up there, it seems," Verity chuckled. She and John then finished congratulating Collette and let her loose to begin telling some of their other coworkers the news. "Wow… she wasn't even this excited when she told us she was getting married."

"I knew she wasn't going to be able to keep her hands off the lad for long," John laughed. Verity rolled her eyes and walked away—some topics were not worth further discussion, and that was one of them.

* * *

In normal terms—those of their coworkers and neighbors and friends—John and Clara Smith's currently-childless marriage seemed to have turned every night into Date Night. One of them would make dinner after work and they would later do all sorts of things, such as listening to the radio or cuddling on the couch or even immediately going to work off their recent calorie intake in the bedroom. So for them, the concept of a true Date Night ended up a bit of a mystery, until the idea of 'letting one's hair down' was casually mentioned one day in the teachers' break room and they decided to have a go.

This was how John found himself in his cleanest jumper and dad's kilt, while Clara sat across from him at their kitchen table in her second-best dress and carefully-styled hair, as they ate a lump of food-looking stuff they had decided to call dinner.

"This is a fairly decent casserole," Clara nodded as she ate a forkful of veg. "Did you end up needing my directions?"

"Only a little," John replied. It was true that she _had_ left the recipe out on the counter for him before she left for work, but it was also true that the past few years had made him more comfortable in cooking things more complicated than a sandwich or cheese-noodles. "It helps to have something to fall back on, at the very least."

"Good to know my husband isn't completely helpless then," she laughed. "I've heard that even the most independent of career bachelors can suddenly forget their skills if there's someone else around to do things for them."

"Well, they say it's good to learn something every day," he smirked. "Oh, speaking of, I learned something interesting at work earlier." He watched as the look on his wife' face turned confused.

"You? Learning something at the shipyards?" she deadpanned, an eyebrow expertly arching. "I thought you fulfilled your learning quota for the year there when you first arc welded back in April."

"That's learning _during_ work. I'm talking about while at the building itself," he said. Pausing, he waited for Clara to respond before continuing. "We're going to be Uncle John and Auntie Clara soon."

"Really…?" she gasped, eyes growing wide as their plates.

"Yeah. Collette told Verity and me just today. She's taking off sometime mid-March, and is due either later in the month or early April… they'll be more certain in time."

"Did you tell her we can help babysit if she and her husband want a weekend alone?" Clara asked excitedly. John nodded into his casserole.

"The invitation's been opened," he said. Looking at the happily dumbstruck expression on his her, John wondered if he had ever looked like that while interacting with the sisters they had hosted two and a half years ago. "It'll be good practice for once we can get around to giving the kid some honorary cousins, don't you think?"

"That's one way to put it, I guess," Clara replied. Sighing happily, she scooped up the rest of her casserole from her plate and shoved it in her mouth; just because they didn't want children of their own yet did not mean they were adverse to them entirely. "Oh, the post came while you were cooking—we got another letter from Gwen and Ruby."

"Oh yeah? How are they doing? That boy that's been bothering them and their host's girl… he stop yet?"

"Only after Ruby threw a frog in the boy's face, bless her," Clara laughed. John stood up and took his dishes from the table, only to hear her clear her throat as he reached the sink. She affected an accent, so posh it made her giggle through her words. "Clear my plate, please. Honestly, Smith, if you keep up this sloppy display I'm going to have to report you to His Lordship."

"We can't have that, can we milady?" he chuckled. He went back for her plate, leaving a kiss behind her ear as he bent in half. Holding his lips just above her skin, he quietly murmured, "Or maybe I should report _you_ to His Lordship, hmm?"

"…and why would you say that?"

"Real ladies never say ' _please_ '." He put away the plate and turned around to see Clara looking at him in feigned insult.

"How _dare_ you," she smirked. "I should have you banished back to whatever kelp farm we fished you out of."

"My most humble apologies, milady," John said, rolling his eyes in amusement. He knelt down on both knees in front of his wife and bowed his head. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"I might… if you persuade me," Clara replied. She reached forward and guided John's face towards hers, locking him in a kiss. They soon parted to find her hands in his hair, while his one hand cupped her jaw and the other traveled up the inside of her skirt.

"Och, drawn-on stockings today, you naughty girl," he said, flashing his teeth in a grin. "Don't suppose there's anything else you went without?"

"Only one way to find out, now is there?" she replied. John kissed her again, both hands going under her skirt. His kisses began to trail away from her lips and found her throat. As he moved down to the bit of chest her dress exposed, hiking her skirt to her hips all the while, a sharp knocking sound came at the front door.

Pausing, the couple waited to hear if the visitor meant business. A whole minute passed and John shrugged, bending down to continue his work. He was nearly in full force when the knock reappeared along with a shrill greeting.

"I'll get it," he sighed. Leaving a quick, though strategic, kiss, John rose to his feet and went through the kitchen and sitting room to the front door. He rubbed his jumper sleeve over his mouth before opening the door to a familiar face—the wispy rail of an old woman who lived down the corridor was standing there before him.

"Oh, hello Mr. Smith… is Mrs. Smith in?" she asked cautiously. The woman let her eyes trail up and down John, taking in everything from his old kilt and good boots to the way his hair looked as if he'd been outside in the wind. "I'm sorry… were you getting ready to go somewhere…?"

"No, just…" He searched for the right words to say. "Mrs. Smith and I were in the middle of something. Should I tell her you came around, Mrs. Mason?"

"Please tell her I'm getting a list together of people willing to help with a bake sale some time next month to raise money for the war effort," Mrs. Mason said. "I'm thinking maybe later in the month, so we can set aside as much as we can and incorporate the Christmas season into it."

"That is a lovely idea; I'll be sure to tell her," John nodded. "Now if you excuse me, I really must get back to Mrs. Smith…"

"Alright, I'll leave you to it," she said. The door was almost closed when she cleared her throat, causing John to poke his head back out.

"Yes, Mrs. Mason?"

"You missed a spot," she said, scratching her upper lip. John went red in the face and quickly retreated back inside the flat, leaning up against the door as he closed it.

"Now what was that about?" Clara asked as she made her way from the kitchen to the sitting room.

"Mrs. Mason organizing a bake sale next month," John replied airily, wiping his mouth with his other sleeve. "Honestly, doesn't she do that every other month?"

"It could be worse," she shrugged. With her hips swaying, she crossed the sitting room and pulled her husband's face down to kiss him. "It could be _you_ having to participate in the bake sale."

"I can cook alright, but my mother help me if I try to bake so much as tray of biscuits," he sighed. Clara patted his cheek and chuckled.

"Lucky for you that I'm here, hmm? Or else you'd never get another biscuit in your life," she said before lightly pressing their lips together. "Now cheer up; where were we?"

"The intimately-deprived and put-out Lady Montague has retreated to her Highland country home," John sighed, allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards. Clara took his hands in hers and began to walk backwards, leading him through the flat. "Most of the staff are off on their annual holiday, so it's only the Lady and the dashing new ghillie."

"Can't you just say 'gamekeeper' and leave it at that?"

"What, and lose the authenticity? Just because we're having a bit of fun doesn't mean we have to make it sound like some dreadful pulp romance by some sot who's never even seen Scotland, let alone the encyclopedia entry," he chuckled. By then Clara had lead him into their room and he sat down on the bed. "The lords and lairds tend to use ghillies up here."

"I thought the lords and lairds were afraid of anything that sounded too Scottish for fear of ridicule in their London society clubs," she teased. She ran a hand though his hair as she bent down and moved his sporran to the side of his hip. He tensed, knowing what was coming next.

"Not everyone has a London society club to please, milady," John murmured. He placed his hands on his wife's waist as she slid the fabric of his kilt up and exposed his thighs before sitting down in his lap. "Now what would His Lordship say?"

"What His Lordship doesn't know won't kill him," Clara replied, hiking her own skirt and straddling his legs. "I'm just surprised that the legend of what's under the Scotsman's kilt is true."

"Only for you, milady," he declared. He leaned back and propped himself up on his elbows while she began to rock and work them both up into a state. Closing his eyes, John felt himself melting into Clara's touch. As they went along, he began to wheeze as he held her waist with shaky hands and his face grew beet-red. "You mean, I can't finish what I started earlier?" Clara leaned down in reply and left kisses on his face to calm him.

"Hush, my dear ghillie," she giggled. "No one will know."

"…but they will," he answered, his voice barely above a murmur. His hips hitched and his wife gasped and laughed in surprise as they kept on going. "It is a deep love I'm in… so deep in love am I, and I will love thee still, my dear, till all the seas go dry."

Clara paused and looked down at her husband, stopping all movement entirely. "You recite poetry now?"

"The ghillie recites poetry; feck we are terrible at this," John grumbled. He leaned up and kissed her as she resumed working them both to a finish, after which they laid on the bed together.

"Okay, so we need practice," Clara mumbled into his jumper. "Practice makes perfect, right?"

"I guess," he sighed, still trying to catch his breath. "You should have waited for me to come back to the kitchen."

"Then we'd be snuggled up on the table, and how long would it be before we can eat breakfast and dinner without laughing?" she smiled. She carefully adjusted herself as arms wrapped around her gently.

"Never, milady," he chuckled, already feeling tired. "I hope never."


	33. November 1943

"Clara? You home, dear?" John called out as he trudged into the flat after a long day at work. She didn't greet him at the door, and he did not smell dinner cooking, so there was a decent chance she was still out. He looked in the kitchen—no note, so she must have not had time to come back. He had forgotten which day that week she was supposed to stay late to help the children practice for the upcoming Christmas pageant, and her conspicuous absence must have meant it was tonight. He sighed and scratched his neck; a shower, then going down to the school with some chips to-go from the pub, was in order.

John kicked off his boots and wandered into the bedroom to grab some clean clothes. He just barely opened the door to the room when he saw Clara sit straight up on the bed, clearly startled. She gasped when she saw him, her eyes puffy and red as if she had been crying for hours, and shrank back as he approached, trying not to shy away at his touch.

"What's wrong?" he asked, brushing some unkempt hair from her face.

"I'm scared, John," she replied. Her voice was quiet and coarse, lending credibility to the thought of a very long cry. She waited until he sat down on the bed before curling up into his lap and clutching his jumper. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair.

"Are you okay? Did someone try to hurt you on the way home?"

"No… I got sick today in class."

"You got sick _yesterday_ in class too," John noted. "Why is that so frightening? You _did_ have something odd for lunch the other day, so it must not all be out of your system…"

"I don't think it's the new neighbor's cooking," Clara croaked. She buried her face in his jumper and bit her lip. "I… I think I might be pregnant."

John took a deep breath to steady himself. Pregnant? They were going to have a child? They had been very careful to prevent that from happening, but it didn't stop John's chest from swelling and his eyes from watering.

"That is wonderful, dearest," he said. Clara broke out into an outright sob.

"No, it's _not_ ," she cried. She beat her fist against his chest in frustration. "We agreed that we weren't going to have kids until after the war… that as long as we can still have our flat—our brand new, piece-of-shit, flat—bombed out from underneath us we would be careful. Your grandparents' house withstood two hundred years of Scottish weather but in two nights it was reduced to nothing."

John could do little to argue against that. It hurt to get his hopes up, he knew, and decided to play the safe route for the conversation's sake. He turned Clara's chin towards him and gently kissed her lips. "Now, tell me, are you _sure_ you're pregnant?"

"I've been getting sick and crying at little things and I'm sore and dizzy and I keep on wanting to eat everything I see…"

"…which are all things I've been able to apply to you before, just not all at the same time," he said. "Please, Clara, I want you to go to the clinic tomorrow and let them run whatever tests they need to in order to settle this matter. There's a good chance you're late from stress again, and that always puts you in a state."

"…and what if…?"

"We'll make it work." John drew his wife into his chest again and rocked her slightly. "I _promise_ you we will make it work."

"Please don't promise," Clara squeaked. She choked back another sob, her mind racing at the possible roads ahead of them, very few of which she found to be actually agreeable. It was impossible to help, but she simply felt so _scared_ at the prospect of a child now. She hated the feeling—children had always been joys to her, and if this was the start to one of her own then she'd rather skip ahead to nappies and feedings and chaos and forego the months of worry and dread.

A pause settled between them before John's low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "You up for a sandwich? This doesn't seem like a cooking sort of day." She nodded in agreement, even though her stomach was already rebelling. Clara slid off her husband and allowed him to get up and move towards the kitchen to put together their modest dinner. He returned a bit later with a tray laden with sandwiches and tea, which they ate together in silence. After clearing the tray and taking his shower, John came back to the bedroom to find Clara already hunkered down in bed for the night. He climbed in and curled his arms around her waist, holding her in his iron grip as she shivered silently.

* * *

The flat was quiet the following day as John laid stretched out on the couch, trying to get some sort of rest. It was useless, even though he had not gotten much sleep the night before and it had been a long day at work. It was Clara's absence that made him worry. Before he left that morning she had promised to go to the clinic directly after work and had said she would come right home afterwards. It was now edging on eight o'clock, making the sandwich John had for dinner do flips in his stomach.

He was almost asleep when he heard the front door click open and shut. Before he knew it, John had Clara laying on top of him and holding on to him for dear life. He wrapped his arms around her, protectively shielding her from the perils of their tiny sitting room.

"…and? What's the diagnosis?" John asked sweetly. "You know I'm here, one way or the other."

Clara sniffled and when she spoke, it sounded as if she had been crying. "Seven."

"Seven…? Seven what?"

"Seven weeks gone," she croaked. He thought about that for a moment and frowned.

"Okay, even I know that doesn't make sense. You've had a cycle since then, right?"

"It wasn't as heavy as normal, and sometimes that happens." Her voice was small and shaken. "In June… early June… we're going to have a baby."

John twisted his lips into a grin, trying not to burst from excitement. "So you were right. You _are_ pregnant."

Curling up, Clara began to cry into his jumper to muffle her panic. "This is terrible, absolutely terrible! We're in too much danger to think about children! I can't bring a baby with me to work, neither can you, and there's so much we need to get done first! Not now… not during all this…"

John stroked his wife's hair and kissed the top of her head in an effort to soothe her. "No, no, no… don't talk like that. Who knows how long the war will last, and if no one had children during wars then we would cease to be as a people. Don't worry about the Reich and their bombs—I'll shoot them out of the sky with my rivet gun if that's what it comes down to."

"…but…"

"This had to happen," he said. "For one reason or another, we are meant to endure this. For better or worse, Clara, and I'm going to make sure it's not the latter."

They laid there silently, Clara nestled in John's arms. Her breathing was jagged and forced, while he stared at the pattern of the couch fabric while formulating what to say next.

"John…?"

"Yes, Clara?"

"Can we…" she hesitated, "…not tell anyone?"

"We can't _not_ tell anyone, Clara. It'll be sort of obvious by March or April, don't you think?"

"No, I mean, not tell anyone until then. I don't want to hide it but, I don't need people fussing over me for no reason."

"Clara, you're going to have a _baby_. I think that's reason enough to fuss."

"You can fuss, okay? You fuss all you want. The dad's allowed to fuss," she grumbled. "By the time I'm big enough to where people can put it together, at least school will be almost done with and I can be ready to go into seclusion or whatever it is that women do up here."

"What about _your_ dad? Should we tell your dad now or…?"

She shook her head. "I think I'll tell him about then too; he's a worrier."

"Can I tell Will at work? I know he's my mate, but he's also sort of like my boss who I get our ration booklets from, and if you ever need anything while I'm at work…"

" _Only_ if he can keep it a secret," Clara warned. "The less people that know, the more of my sanity I'll be able to keep. I'd rather them think I scammed the Ministry of Food for a few months then have anyone lording over me."

"Sounds fair enough. Oh Clara…" John shifted so that he was on his side, cocooning his wife and child between the couch cushions and himself. "I love you both so much."

She paused, staring at the fabric of his jumper as she was enveloped in the cuddle. "I love you too, John." Her hesitation went unnoticed, though that was likely for the better. Clara meant the words, she meant all four of them from the bottom of her heart, but given the circumstances, she didn't think she could be blamed for allowing her thoughts to muddle in worry.


	34. December 1943

The sitting room was quiet as Clara sat reading on the couch while John sketched her. He had bought a larger sketchbook for Christmas, one that he could use to get further detail than the one he kept in his pocket. He lightly traced a curve that wasn't yet there in his wife's figure, pensive.

"Clara?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, John?"

"How would you fancy moving to London?"

Clara put her book down and looked at him. " _Now_ …?"

"No, after the war, or a few years' time, whichever comes first."

"What could you possibly want to do in London?"

"The publishing companies are larger; I can get my books read all over the world if I wanted. Glasgow's good, but if you want to make it big you go to London. I mean, that's instant access to half the world," John shrugged. "You've lived in London with no problem, right? There are worse places to raise a child."

"Your family has lived in and around the vicinity of Glasgow for hundreds of years," Clara said. "Your gran's granddad built our house."

"It was just a house." John put the sketchbook down and stood from his chair to join Clara on the couch. She propped her legs up on the cushions, which allowed John to lay on them and wrap his arms around her middle, his shins hanging off the end of the furniture. He put his head on her stomach and let out a deep sigh. "So, when does doing this get me kicked in the face?"

"Another month at the very least, or so I'm told," Clara said. She adjusted her shoulders and closed her eyes, humming contently. John frowned sourly at their sitting room, not enjoying the thought that had just come to him.

"Clara…?" he breathed, starting the conversation anew.

"Yes, John?"

"You _are_ fine with this, yeah?"

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't…" John paused and swallowed, half-regretting his words before they even left his mouth. "You aren't having this baby because of me, are you?"

"That's how any woman has a baby, John," Clara sighed, scratching his scalp gently with her nails. "More often than not, she needs a little help from her husband."

"That's not what I meant." He bit his lip, loathing the conversation. "There's still time, you know."

"I know." Clara opened her eyes back up and stared at the ceiling too new to have the crack that was slowly moving across the room. "It is scary, yeah, and it goes against all the plans we had, but I'm not having the baby because of you."

"Then why?"

"I'm having the baby because I _have_ you. There's a difference," she insisted. "I can do anything as long as I know you've got my back; don't think you're pressuring me, because you're not. I don't need another option because we're together."

"We'd still be together, even if you didn't want the baby."

"…and that's the point. Had I married any other man I might've thought about it, but I'm married to you. No matter what, you're there for me, and I think that is definitely something to take into consideration."

"So… you're sure you're fine with everything? It's _your_ decision and yours alone?"

"Of course it's my choice," Clara said, lightly tapping the back of John's head. "I should hope I can make a rational decision of my own free will despite you being a total gob."

"I can't help it," John smiled. He lightly tightened his grip on Clara, hugging her and their child gently.

"Never thought it would happen, did it?" she asked.

"No," he admitted, "and it's been hard. Would you believe that everyone thought I hated children?"

Clara scrunched her face in confusion. "Really? But you were a children's book illustrator."

"Yeah, but that didn't mean I was always doting on the neighborhood kids," he explained. "I don't hate children, just _stupid_ children. There are lots of those around here, since they're just as thick as their parents, and the ones that start out smart and clever have all of it beat out of them one way or another even if their home is a happy one. It's not their fault, but idiot children grow into idiot adults and too often there's nothing you can do to stop that."

"You don't mean that… besides, our child won't be an idiot," she cooed.

"Not if it's your brains being passed down, no."

"You count for something too, you know," Clara smiled. She closed her eyes again and idly played with John's fluffy hair, which was getting greyer and greyer almost by the week. "I drafted the letter to my dad earlier."

"When are you going to send it?"

"I don't know. Soon though. He'll only be at home for a little while longer." She sighed, her content face drawing into a frown. "I worry about him, John."

"He got called for service, not tossed out a plane above Stuttgart," he half-scoffed. "He'll probably just be one of the old men they keep at home, cooking in a tent or filing paperwork far from the front lines. You have enough to worry about."

"You sure are calm for someone who would have jumped at the letter four years ago."

"Four years ago I wasn't married or expecting a daughter of my own—we hadn't even met at that point, let alone shared that dance. I now know where I'm needed most, and that's right here."

"Stop assuming we're going to have a girl," Clara groaned. "What if June comes along and out pops a boy? I don't know of any man in all of history who has been disappointed at having a son, but you're threatening to be the first."

"Never claimed I was conventional, have I?" John smiled and rubbed his face into Clara's stomach. "We're having a daughter; I can _feel_ it. What do you think, sweetling? Are you a Martha? A Jenny? An Amelia?"

"A child that's going to be spoiled rotten, that's what they're going to be. I swear, you are the worst."

With a smile John lifted himself up onto his hands and slid upwards so he could kiss his wife. He may have been the worst, but she was still kissing back, wearing his mother's wedding ring, and carrying his child out of her own free will. Four years sure brought a world of difference.

"Speaking of spoiling," he grinned, "I wonder when you think is a good age for a first football match. Five? Six? If we ever _have_ senior-level football again…"

"You haven't even had the chance to take _me_ to a football match, let alone any of our children," Clara frowned. She thought for a moment, contemplative. "Though who knows… maybe you and Duncan can make matches a sort of dad's day once the war's done and the kids are old enough…"

"No," John replied simply. "Collette's lad is many positive things, but I'm not being caught dead next to him on match day. He supports _Celtic_."

Clara peered into her husband's eyes, trying to gauge his seriousness. "I get football rivalries as well as the next person, but that means nothing to me."

"It means that when it comes to the Old Firm, our little darling isn't sitting anywhere near a green scarf and cap unless her life depends on it," he explained with the straightest face possible. "Clara…" He leaned in close to whisper in her ear, "Mam and Dad's first date was a Rangers match… heck, I was nearly _born_ at one."

"That's a little drastic," she chuckled. "Let our child be born before you start declaring their allegiances. For all you know they could want to wear _tangerine_ to their matches."

"I assume that's something English," John smirked. He nuzzled his face in her neck and began to tickle Clara's sides. Shrieking in giggles, she squirmed her way out from her husband's grasp and landed on the floor. She quickly stood up, only for her head to spin and force her to land back down on his lap. "Hey, hey, careful now."

"I just stood up to fast, nothing to worry about," she said. "Don't worry—I won't make it a habit." Kissing John lightly on the lips, she let out a low purr of a laugh. "Though what if I wanted to go have a lie-down? I'm stuck here, unable to get up, and the bed is terribly far."

"Then let me help you," he replied. John stood up with Clara in his arms and made his way towards the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real life, there's a bit of [ethnic, political, religious] tension between Rangers and Celtic fans, to put it lightly. Extensive research (aka: a conversation from a decade ago with family members) has shown that there are many supporters that don't give a shit about the tension other than friendly rivalry and the people that start shit do it just to be awful, so I don't feel bad making John favor one team over the other purely for the sake of a family connection. Rangers have royal blue kits (powder blue in John's youth), which makes it fit better visually with the whole Doctor Who thing (Celtic are in green). I've got gear for both teams though, as my family allegiance is apparently divided to begin with, so on a personal level I'm just for the Old Firm (who, by the way, had their 400th meeting on Sunday, which is pretty rad). This makes me one of those people that'd show up wearing a Celtic cap and a Rangers shirt and I am not sorry.
> 
> It's a bear trying to figure out canon!Clara's allegiance though. Is it Blackpool F.C.? Is it Manchester United? Is it Middlesborough F.C.? Was the Bryan Robson quip from The Rings of Akhaten actually about Clara or was it just a thing for Dave to say? The world may never know.


	35. January 1944

Cold, pale light bled in through the drapes, gently easing the two bedroom occupants to consciousness. John craned his neck forwards and began to leave small, nibbling kisses behind his wife's ear to rile her further awake. The alarm had not rung yet, meaning they still had time before the start of the day, and he wanted to enjoy it.

"Morning," he murmured, nuzzling her with his nose. Clara wriggled at his touch, unsure if she wished to attempt escaping the iron grip around her or not.

"Gross—you never rinsed out your mouth last night after ' _not wanting to disturb the baby_ '. I can smell it on your breath," she grumbled.

John stopped the kisses and pulled her in closer, tucking the crown of her head beneath his chin. "The bathroom's too far and I was already half-asleep."

"Then use the washbasin."

"We use that to rinse our faces, not our mouths… now who's the gross one?"

Clara groaned and tilted her head back to rest flush against her husband's chest. "I don't know why I put up with you."

"Besides our little darling? Probably because Belinda's house was flattened, you've had too much of living at the school for anyone at this point, and you don't know whether or not your dad made your room into a study like he promised yet or not," he chuckled.

"You forgot that I'm not fond of the woman he's been seeing," she added grumpily. "I know I shouldn't judge before I meet her in-person, but she simply sounds awful."

"It's always awful when Dad shags someone who's not Mam," John shrugged. Clara replied with a sharp elbow in his stomach, which loosened his adoring clutches long enough for her to roll over and press her face into his chest.

"Be serious, John; she's not the first woman he's courted since Mum, but I just don't know about her. She'd be our child's nan, and I just can't imagine her as one based on the letters…"

"No, I know. Unpleasant thoughts are just easier to face when you can laugh them off—I've had practice—trust me." He stroked her hair and chuckled. "Though by that admittance, I should have seemed mad as a hatter when you met me."

"…maybe I should have listened to those warnings then, hmm?" Clara chuckled. She pressed a finger to John's lips and kissed the tip of his nose before settling down in his grasp again. He rolled on to her and slid down the mattress, gingerly lowering his ear to her stomach as she began to idly play with his hair, keeping watch for their child's first sparse movements.

Peace was not long for them, however, as angry shouting came filtering in through the walls and opened window. Both John and Clara winced, gently tightening their grips on each other.

"I really wish I knew what they were saying," he muttered into her chest. "If we have machines that cook and clean for us, why can't we have machines that translate for us too?"

"I'd rather spend a whole day entertaining Dad's ladyfriend," she said quietly. "You don't need to fight other people's battles."

"It's called 'helping where I can' and in this case it would involve knowing when to call the police or not," he shrugged. "At least she doesn't sound scared—just eternally cross."

"Well, what is she? Russian?"

"Polish, but she knows Russian; works for some translation company downtown." John paused, listening to the male voice. "That's not Polish… or Russian."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's scaring Mrs. Mason on the other side of them, the poor thing," Clara sighed. "It's bad enough we have to share a wall with their kitchen…" She reached towards the alarm clock and snatched it off the bedside table. "We still have twenty minutes…"

"No, we're up anyways," he said, nuzzling her neck. "Just think of how sweet revenge it will be during nighttime feedings and when we have to let her cry through the night."

"Oh, you're a nasty piece of work, aren't you?" she chuckled. She wiggled her way out of her husband's grasp and grabbed her housecoat, which she put on while making her way towards the kitchen. John finally caught up to her by the time Clara had finished heating up a tin of beans and making toast for their breakfast. She served the beans and left the toast on the table in order to tend to the boiling kettle.

The telephone sitting just outside the kitchen gave off four short rings, letting the couple know there was a call on the line, though not for them. Clara finally sat down at the table herself, placing the teapot in front of her while the drink brewed.

"I was thinking," John muttered through his beans. "If I move around the furniture and put up a screen, we actually won't have that bad of a nursery space if we keep the cot in the sitting room. It'll be a little cramped, but it won't be horrible."

"John, _no_ ," she replied. "That sounds too permanent. I would much rather keep a cot in our room while we look for a house or a bigger flat. You promised me we wouldn't be stuck here."

The phone rang again—one long ring, two short, and a long—and they continued eating.

"I'm just thinking about if we can't…"

"We _will_. What about London?"

He picked at his beans, his eyes downcast. "I need a book to shop around before we can consider London. It won't be easy, but I have a plan."

"It better not involve our child's bedroom being a screened-off portion of the sitting room on their first day of secondary school while you're still hanging off the sides of ships."

"If that's what it takes, then **_yes_** ," John snapped, shooting his wife an irritated glare. He saw how wide Clara's eyes grew and looked away, softening his voice though keeping the grumble. "I was dead broke by the time I got my prewar contract and had to do odd jobs around the neighborhood just to stay fed while I was working towards it. If I can still support us during the day while furthering our dream at night and on the weekends, then I will."

"I can work, John," Clara replied quietly. "Mrs. Pitt raised three kids on her own by working as a teacher—you don't have to work yourself to death."

"Mrs. Pitt also had a war widow's stipend, plus an inheritance," he clarified. "This won't be easy."

"The easiest thing about the past four years has been going to bed. Other than that… I knew what I was getting into from the start." She lightly touched her stomach and closed her eyes, only to shudder and make a dash for the window, hearing rumbling and whistling and explosions that were not there. Throwing it open, Clara let the chilled morning breeze in so as to pass over her face and settle her nerves. By the time her heart rate came down to normal John was at her side and holding her by the shoulders.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Now I am," she only half-lied. "I still say that cellar was an act of Providence."

"Luck and good planning from days gone by." He then kissed her hair and caressed her hips from behind. "I should go get ready for work."

"Okay." She quietly watched him leave the kitchen before popping her head in the refrigerator and taking out the makings for sandwiches. By the time she had finished putting his lunch together John was dressed and pulling on his boots by the door. Clara held out her hand and waited for him to take it, using the contact as an excuse to perch on her toes and peck his cheek.

"We still have five months," she said before passing him the sandwiches. "A lot can happen in five months."

"That it can," he replied. He bent down and kissed her, placing his free hand on the small of her back to hold her steady. By the time they parted Clara was on the verge of breaking into a sob. Wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb, John flashed his teeth in an effort to not end on a bittersweet note. "My turn to make dinner tonight?"

"Sure," she nodded. "I know you'll do your best."

After one more kiss to take with him for the day, John left the flat and allowed Clara to get ready for her own job. He went down the stairs with a scowl on his face, though not because he was angry; the road ahead of him and his family was not going to be an easy one. Not easy, yes, but he was going to make sure that it was going to be _worth it_.


	36. March 1944

John smiled as he woke up, his face covered by Clara's hair and his arm draped over her waist. He ran his hand along her stomach, a curve having finally begun to take shape within the past month. Even in the darkness before twilight he knew she was beautiful and radiant and everything she should be. She was another day closer to becoming a mother—within a week or two she would not be able to hide it by claiming a lack of exercise and he would be able to tell everyone. The neighbors, his coworkers, _Dave_ … yes, it was probably a good thing to tell Dave he was getting a granddaughter… or a grandson, John supposed. Whichever was coming was going to be loved though, that he knew for certain.

"Mmm… morning," John muttered, kissing the back of Clara's neck. She shifted in the bed and rolled over to look at him.

"Morning. You have work today?"

"Yeah; we're still on Saturdays for a while longer yet. How's our princess this morning?"

"Doing backflips on Mum's bladder," Clara groaned, officially having given up on correcting him. She had felt the tiny flutter of the baby's first movement the month before and it seemed like it had not stopped since. "I'm going to ask today if this is normal. Knowing my luck it probably is."

"Mams are always suffering, didn't you know that?" John chuckled. He smirked as Clara slid back down underneath the blanket and grumbled. She had taken to hiding as of late, mainly to combat the embarrassing baby names or ridiculous standards for their child he was proposing. John got out of bed and dressed for the day before sitting back down and gently peeling the blanket back from his wife's face. She was visibly upset to the point of biting her lip and avoiding eye contact.

"Have a good day; see you after work," Clara whispered. John gave her a soft smile and kissed her lightly.

"I love you both."

"I love you too. Now go on, or you'll be late."

John brushed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear before leaving.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon and everything was going smoothly. Well, as smooth as building a submarine could go anyways. It was just John and Verity working the rivet guns on their side of the ship that morning, since Collette had already left in order to have her baby, which was due within a fortnight. They were partway up the side when the foreman called up to them from the shipyard floor.

"John! John! I need you down here!" Will shouted. "Special assignment from higher up!" The riveters stopped what they were doing and looked down at their boss.

"Well that's odd…" Verity said. "What on earth do they want with your old sack of bones?"

"I don't know, but there's only one way to get that answered," John shrugged. He eased some slack into his rope and slid down the side of the vessel until he reached the bottom. After unhitching himself, he walked over to the foreman. "What's going on?"

Will leaned in close and put an arm around John's shoulder, forcing him to walk alongside him. "I'm doing this because we're mates, alright, and this is something no man should ever hear."

John's heart skipped a beat.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He tried to keep his face straight, but his eyebrows could not help rising into his forehead.

"Keep breathing as I lead you to the lockers," Will said. "Someone just telephoned about Clara."

"No… what about Clara?!"

"Stay calm, don't make a scene." Will brought John into the locker area and finally let go. "Clara's been admitted to the hospital—whichever one she went to for her appointment."

Placing his hand on the lockers to steady himself, John's eyes went wide. "What for?"

"They didn't say, other than that it's advisable you come—listen, John," Will said. He held the other man's shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. "Don't run. Don't shout. Go home, shower, and then take the bus over. They're not going to let you in a hospital smelling like you do."

"…but…!"

"No, John, listen to me," Will insisted. "If they admitted her, then she's in the place she needs to be. They'll watch over her until you come."

"Okay…" John agreed half-heartedly. His breathing became uneven and his face uncertain. "Why didn't they say what happened to her?"

Will hesitated before answering. "I don't know, but get home so you can get to her. I can manage to get you a couple days off if you need it, alright? Go to Clara."

John nodded silently and thanked Will before walking out of the shipyard wearing the straightest face he could muster. Trying to keep his gait quick yet controlled, he caught the bus and walked back to his flat. He was barely in the door before he began to shred his outer layers and toss himself in the bathroom. He showered in a rush and panicked as he scrambled through the wardrobe for clean clothes.

' _I need to stay calm_ ,' he reminded himself. ' _Just don't think John. Act. Just act. Thinking will only get in the way._ ' He was pulling on his jumper, nearly out the door again, when a sudden wave of realization hit him.

Will knew more than he let on. The hospital… they had told him, but Will didn't want to be the one to relay the news. What was he told that could have been so horrible that he wanted to avoid being the one to tell him?

His body began to shake. It was something simple, right? They just wanted to monitor Clara, since this was her first child and all. There was any number of tests that they could want to do, and some might even involve her staying overnight. He had neighbors that went through such things while pregnant, so really there was nothing to worry about…

…but why did Will not tell him that? Nearly as important: why did Will offer to give John days off?

His chest constricted as he wobbled over to the couch and sank down into it. Twelve hours before, Clara had been sleeping in his arms, supporting a life they had created together. Now… now she and their child were any number of things.

' _Focus_ ,' John told himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, trying to calm his nerves and settle his brain.

"Okay, best-case scenario: Clara needs tests done." He waved his hands around in an attempt to sort things out mentally. "Eunice had them with her little girl, and even Collette did and she's as sturdy as an ox. Modern medicine is really incredible, but also makes you over-worry."

The sitting room did not answer back.

"Now, worst-case scenario… oh shit… no, no, no, no, no… don't think that." He stood and began to pace about, crossing the room quickly with his long stride as he whispered harshly to himself. "Best case is tests. Worst case is tests. You can't worry. You _shan't_ worry or it's an early grave for y…"

He stopped for a moment, hands coming to rest on his hips and lips pursing together. The very thought made his stomach churn, but he couldn't see a way around it: no one got time off while they were rushing to beat the clock on the submarine contract, not unless it had been negotiated well in advance. His eyes stung as he grabbed his jacket and made his way out the door, vision blurred and throat itching.

If there was _any_ good in the world, he thought, then he hoped they were at least _alive._

* * *

Traffic was bad as John sat on the bus, giving him more time to think as he made his way to the hospital, trying to keep his mind off the worst. If he made it there and Clara had simply been admitted for some tests then he would be thankful. He would bring her home afterwards and ask Dave if there was a way he could bow out of service and stay with them until the baby was born, so that someone she trusted could be with her all day and night. John knew he was far from a controlling man (in fact it was more Clara that was the controlling one and he was fine with that), but if it would benefit his wife's health to stay home, then he wanted her to stay home for as long as was necessary. They did not need her salary to survive unlike some couples, and their savings was enough to supplement any emergency expenditure that they might require…

…but if Clara _was_ dead? He'd still need to contact Dave. If she was dead there was a good chance there could be no baby, though John did not know if he'd have to arrange a double funeral or not. Then again, Clara was due the first week in June, so there was still a chance, even if it was a slim one, for a child to survive this early. If the baby did make it, he'd have to find a nanny, preferably one that no one could accuse him of shagging. Maybe Dave, again, if he wanted; Dave should know everything. John hoped that if—his forebears forbid—Clara was dead, that he was still allowed their child. Claire? Clark? He knew he needed something, someone, to live for, or after his wife was gone and ashes spread it would be the Clyde for him. If there was a sin in the world for him to commit, it would be outliving her.

With the rest of his family either dead or presumably so, the gut-churning realization that he only truly had Clara left in the world settled over John in a haze. Together they were a team, but with her gone, _if_ she was gone, what else did he have other than a name near-anonymity and a job that was turning him into an old man by the day? He didn't even have a house anymore, just some awful flat that was low-income housing in all but name. His career, illustrating stories for the children he never had, wasn't even a guarantee for after the war. What if the shipyards wore him down so quickly he broke before it ended, leaving a wee babe with a father that couldn't even care for it? If there had been anything the past four years had shown him, it was that he needed someone to care about in order to keep up his spirits and his strength. He needed someone to hold and cherish and love; that would drive him to make himself better and stay on the right side of the Clyde's surface.

He hoped Clara was alive, that their child was alive. He _needed_ them alive, since he didn't want to go just yet.

When he finally got to the hospital, John nervously walked in to the front office and inquired which ward he'd have to visit. The nurse directed him towards Maternity, which picked his hopes up slightly. He tried not to rush as he walked up the stairs and navigated the halls until he found the main desk of the ward. He stood nearby as the nurse found the doctor he needed to talk to, nervously drumming his fingers against the wooden surface. Everything around him smelled of bleach and disinfectant, the exact opposite of what he was used to with his paints and machinery. Far off in another room, a woman in labor was shouting in a language definitely not English; her cries were enough to make John's stomach flip.

Eventually, the nurse returned with a doctor. He was very plain and nondescript, as far as doctors went, and seemed to be more interested in the contents of his clipboard than anything else.

"John Smith, husband of Clara?" he asked, not looking up from the paper.

"A-Aye. That's me." The doctor looked up at him and back down at the papers, examining a hand-drawn chart.

"Come with me, please," he said. John followed the man further into the corridor, where there was a small nook with a couple chairs where they sat down. "I was told we were able to get hold of your supervisor. Why your supervisor?"

"I work in a shipyard—when the call was made, I was suspended off the side of a submarine."

"Oh, I see," the doctor said plainly, his tone of voice not sitting well with John. "Did he tell you why you needed to come?"

"No, he did not."

"Well then, I've got good news and bad, as trite as that sounds," the doctor said. He looked the other man in the eyes, his face a professional mask. "Which do you want first?"

"Is Clara okay?" John asked quickly. "Please tell me she's okay."

"That was the good news."

John sighed happily. She was doing okay. She was still alive. He kept in his tears for later, for when he was allowed to be more open than now. There was though…

"…then what's the bad news?"

"The baby is not." The man shifted in his seat, more out of his own comfort levels than the information he was giving or at the visible drooping of John's shoulders. "She was overcome by a dizzy spell and she fell on the stairs. It was only a couple steps according to the nurse that was there, but it was enough of an impact to force the labor early. I do have a question for you though: was she using the appropriate ration card?"

"She was," John said quietly. "As far as I know, she was doing everything properly. Why?"

"We ran some tests and there were certain nutrients that seemed to run high in the baby and not in her," the doctor explained. He flipped though his charts nonchalantly. "If she was eating well and being a good patient, then it's probably for the better it happened this way… silver lining and all that."

John straightened himself and his eyes hardened into a glare, his eyebrows furrowed and his lip threatening a sneer. "What do you mean?" The doctor seemed unfazed by the change in demeanor.

"While I'm not sure if the discrepancy in vitals would have been picked up at her appointment today, had the baby been carried to term I'm almost certain your wife would not have survived the delivery. The stress of the birth would have sent her into shock once the adrenaline worn down." He took a pen from his pocket and flipped to a back sheet to write something down. "Her stress levels are very high as things are—too much more could kill her."

"Is she… is she going to be okay? You know, in the long run?" John breathed. The doctor nodded.

"As far as I can tell, she should be. Tell me, what are her hobbies?" he asked, almost mechanically. "She doesn't seem to want to answer any of our questions, which is understandable."

John raised an eyebrow at the request. "She doesn't have much time for it, but she loves reading," he replied cautiously.

"Not much time?" The doctor's own eyebrow lifted slightly. "Please tell."

"My wife teaches primary school, on top of doing most of the chores and cooking at home. She also volunteers in kitchens on occasion, and she tends to run errands for some of the older people in the building that can't take the stairs as often as they'd like. She really is very busy."

"Ah, as I thought—she indulges in too much. Mr. Smith, if your wife did not work then there's a better chance this baby could have survived and developed to-term with less danger to her." The doctor's voice needled and scraped at John's nerves, as if judging him for the active life Clara chose. "Having a baby is a lot of stress on any woman, but too much stress and her body can rebel—the fall was the perfect scapegoat." He flipped through the papers on the clipboard again, pensive.

"Can you tell if this will happen again?" John asked. The doctor shrugged in response.

"To be honest, I'm surprised a pregnancy kept as long as it did, since she was spread so thin. I don't know how long you've been married, but there's a chance she could have had any number of first-trimester miscarriages that just looked like her cycle was off. With the equipment and information available to me right now, I'd have to say that there is a chance children might not be in her future no matter what."

No matter… no matter what…? How could he be so sure? If there was a chance the one way, there was a chance the other, and it was simply a matter of the right amount of care. The doctor seemed too relaxed in all of this.

"We need to run a couple more tests while we have her here—nothing urgent—just to confirm our suspicions," he said. "In the meantime, I would suggest not trying to beat the odds until your wife can significantly lessen her stressors. If rationing eases up, that would be even better, just to give her easier access to a wider variety of fruits and things. Bananas, now, I'd almost kill to see a banana again at the market… but you do _understand_ what I'm saying, Mr. Smith? Is any of this clear or do I need to explain it again?"

John shook his head slowly, though the doctor did not lift his eyes from his papers. "No, I understand." He felt his stomach drop and his breath became shallow. A pit of emotion began swirling inside him, one made him want to smack the judgmental look off the doctor's face right then and there. "Do you have a wife, Doctor?"

"No, I'm afraid. Not enough time."

"Then, can I at least see mine? Can I see her right now?"

"She's stable, so I don't see why not," the doctor said, standing up and motioning towards the ward. John followed suit and walked through to find it mostly empty, with Clara alone towards the end. Lying on her side, she was looking out the window with a blank expression. She wore a hospital gown, a blouse and blood-stained skirt from earlier in the day sitting on the table next to her. When he reached the end of her bed, John licked his lips and inhaled, gathering his courage.

"Clara…?"

His wife gasped sharply, her eyes coming into focus. "John?"

"Yes, I'm here," he answered, grabbing a nearby chair and setting it in front of her. John sat down and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his line of sight in hers. He grabbed her hand and began stroking the back of it with his thumb. "I'm here Clara. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay," she whimpered. "I couldn't…"

"Hush now, no… none of that," John murmured. "Now tell me what happened." Clara paused, swallowing hard before answering in a cracked, distant voice.

"The lift was busy, so I took the stairs. I must have gone up too fast, because all I remember is I made it as far as the third floor and my head spun as I stumbled. Everything just went black and the next thing I know, I'm in here and… and… I lost…" She couldn't continue, her eyes welling up in tears and mucus jamming her throat.

"Shh, no it's okay," he whispered. He kissed the back of her hand and stroked her hair in an effort to calm her down. "I'm just glad I didn't lose you as well."

"You were so looking forward to her," she choked. "She was going to be so beautiful…"

_So it was a girl_ … "We'll try again, after the war, like we had planned."

"Like we had planned."

Clara bit her lip and turned her head, burying her face in the pillow to muffle a sob. John brought his other hand down so as to envelope her own. Bringing it to his forehead first, then his lips, he could taste the metal of her wedding band. It was the shiny scrap that, paired with his, remained the only physical evidence of their union. His eyes watered as he sighed.

"Get dressed; we're leaving." She looked at him, terrified.

"What…?"

"We need to get you in your own bed, in familiar surroundings, because being here is going to do nothing for you," he said. "The doctor said you're stable, so I'm taking you home."

"…but what about…?" Clara started, but was cut off by John leaning forward and drawing her in for a hug. He grimaced, his eyes closing lightly and brow wrinkling in worry.

"I just want you where I know you're safe and I can look after you; they can test you later." He pulled away, his face back to a supportive mask, and stood. "Now please, get dressed."

Clara nodded slowly, quietly agreeing. She put her clothes back on as John disappeared from the room to sign her out into his care. It took a while for him to return, carrying a blanket and looking red in the face.

"Wear this," he said, his voice hoarse. Clara looked up at him and wordlessly took the blanket. She stood up and draped it around herself before allowing him to lead her out of the room. As they walked out of the hospital, she noticed one of the doctors off to the side nursing what looked like a broken nose. She kept her head down and hoped it had nothing to do with her.

The bus ride back to the flat was a quiet one, with John protectively holding Clara by the waist as she tried to control her breathing. No one bothered them, the man whose eyes possessed hellfire and the woman who blankly clung to him. They walked from the bus stop to the flat block arm-in-arm, silently going up the steps and entering the flat together. After ushering Clara in, John shut the door behind them and leaned up against it, one hand still on the knob and his other arm wedged between his forehead and the door.

"John…?" she asked. When she heard no answer she cautiously approached him, placing a hand on his back. He sucked in breath and shuddered before turning around and grabbing her by the waist, pressing his face into the crook of her neck.

"I'm sorry, Clara," he croaked. "I am so sorry."

"John, you have nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one that couldn't do this one thing for you," she sniffled. "Don't apologize."

Instead of protesting, John picked her up and carried her to their bedroom. He set her down on the bed, hospital blanket and all, and crawled in to hold her tight. Clara scratched his hair and put a hand on his shoulder as he let out a shaky sob into her midsection.

"Don't…" she whispered. "I understand… I understand if you're cross with me."

"I'm not cross, not at you," he muttered through his tears. "I'm just glad you're still alive. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you… the entire reason I'm alive…"

"Don't talk like that," Clara sighed. "That man doesn't exist anymore, remember? He hasn't for four years now, you told me so yourself. You're stronger than that."

"I'm strong because of you," John insisted. He choked back some tears as he propped himself up on his elbows in order to look at Clara; his face was beginning to redden again and his eyelids drooped over his glassy stare. "You take care of me more than you know. If it wasn't for you, I'd likely be dead at either my own pathetic hand, or in the ruins of my grandparents' house, or in some ditch on the Continent. Because of you, I've had someone else to live for. I'm reckless enough as it is—don't make me worse by turning me into a widower."

"…but John…" she sniffled. "You've done so much for me and this is something only I could have done, for you. You wanted that daughter so badly you were halfway to adopting a total stranger's children from London… and that was a couple years ago now. Don't tell me that you never thought about keeping Gwen and Ruby even when I told you not to."

"I did," he admitted. "I would have kept them, yes. Happily too, if you would have asked and their mam gave permission."

"See? You want a family. I should be able to give you that family, not someone else's. I'm sorry John… I _failed_."

"You didn't fail. I was the one being too greedy and asking for so much. By being alive, you're all the family I need." John sank back down onto the bed, letting his head fall into his pillow. He pulled Clara close, tucking one arm behind his head and using the other to hold her waist.

Clara frowned at the dark room. "You must be hungry. I should make…"

"No. Please, just be here."

Closing his eyes, John dug his nose into Clara's hair and grit his teeth. Moments later he heaved into a sob that shook his entire body as well as hers. He cried until his eyes hurt and his throat grew raw, the entire time holding his wife in place so that she could not turn around and see him so shattered. Instead Clara closed her eyes and held his hand—she had never felt so useless before, and now it was all she could do to lay there.

It was true: John had wanted a family in the worst way. Between the names he was suggesting on a daily basis and the snuggling of the baby and the excited way he talked about the child's future, Clara had been certain giving him a child would have been the best thing she could do for him after marriage. Now, thanks to something neither of them could control, he was lost instead as that entire future disintegrated around him. It was an ill omen, signaling that it might be entirely impossible now. No children. No family. No legacy. Just them. It scared her, as she had heard stories of loving and doting husbands turning cold and cruel after learning their wives couldn't carry a baby long enough to give it life.

No. Not her John. He was nothing like that. Clara shifted in bed, turning around to find her husband fast asleep. His face was distraught even though his breath was deep and slow through parted lips. Tears and snot soaked his pillow, showing how truly hard a cry he had. Clara let her forehead press against his chest as she tried to match her breathing to his in an attempt to keep from crying again.

She closed her eyes and held him tightly; they were meant to endure this.


	37. The Next Morning

Hours passed in what felt like seconds and Clara woke up to find that she was alone in bed. It was still dark outside, as the sky had yet to lighten and everything seemed very still. She sat up and looked at the empty space where John had been laying and sighed; touching it found that it was still warm, but only just.

' _I guess I was wrong_ ,' she thought. Waking up alone was a rarity, though now she figured it would quickly become more common. Clara rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling, her hand resting automatically on her stomach. She curled her fingers into a fist and bit her bottom lip; her torso throbbed, bringing her to concentrate on her thoughts to numb the pain.

The stories were all there, floating around in her head, both rumors and grounded facts. John was right now where many of them started: slipping away from the routine they once shared. He was emotional and vulnerable and, based on his reaction when they came home, likely unable to express himself fully. It was just a morning where he was not in bed, but mornings out of bed could become nights out of bed. He'd spend more time at the pub and take walks without her. There was even the possibility he'd see other women, if he was distressed enough. She loved him dearly, but she didn't know what she would do if he did that.

She was lucky though, Clara knew that for sure. As heartbroken as he was over the loss of their child, as cold as she imagined him possibly growing towards her, as much as she was sure their marriage would be tested, he would never be cruel and hateful. She was _sure_ her husband did not hate her—if he hated her it was possible she would have the bruises to prove it—though it was not at all an odd thought to think that he might become distant for a while. Distant, she could live with. Distant, she could stay alive with. Distant, she could divorce if it came to that. She didn't want it to come to that; she loved him and knew he loved her as well, but until now children had always been in their future. How much of the passion was left, now that some died with their daughter?

' _I have to get used to this, for now_.' Clara slowly sat up and forced her legs over the side of the bed to dangle as she gathered strength. She was sore and achy worse than she had ever felt before, aftershocks of the trauma she experienced the previous day. The combination of the dizzy spell and the medications she had been given made most of the experience a total blackout, but she could still remember the shooting pain and panicked doctors and lots of blood and crying. She closed her eyes and tried to block the memory from her mind.

Her stomach, queasy and grumbling, broke the silence of the room. Clara stood up and weakly shuffled towards the bedroom door; breakfast was certainly going to have to be the first thing she attended to, whether John was there or had already left the flat in an effort to help air out his plans of the future. The rest of the flat was quiet and still, eerie and unsettling until she entered the kitchen.

"Good, you're up," John said as his wife came into view. She jumped at the surprise his voice brought as he stood by the stovetop, changed into fresh clothes and lording over a pan. Clara sat down at the table and stared at the false grain design on the pressed wooden surface. What could she reply to that with? She was scared, if only because she had no idea what to do that would not risk driving more of a wedge between them.

Before long a bowl of porridge was set in front of her and a kiss landed lightly on her cheek. She watched John sit with his own bowl before he took a spoon from the utensil canister on the table. His face was blank and nothingness—lips drawn tight and eyes half-lidded, his emotions were carefully concealed. Clara took her own spoon and began to stir her porridge, knowing it was likely too hot for her to eat right away.

"Thank you," she said quietly. He ate a spoonful of porridge and nodded.

"You need your rest, considering how sudden of a change your body is going through right now," he replied. He sounded mostly better, but Clara could still hear a slight raspy quality to his voice.

"It's… it's fine. You don't have to baby me," she insisted, instantly regretting her choice of words. Her face grew hot as she saw a scowl go across her husband's face.

"I promised I'd take care of you, so that's what I'm doing," he answered sharply, his gaze downcast. Immediately afterwards he licked his lips and his voice softened. "I want to, Clara. I want to…"

"I know."

They sat silently, with John slowly eating and Clara waiting on her food to cool. Neither said a word until John broke the silence, his voice drenched in trepidation.

"Can I… ask something?"

Clara took a deep breath and steadied herself for the worst. "Sure."

"Where is she?" He poked at his porridge now, shuffling it around the bowl with his spoon. "Did they take care of her or do we have to…"

"They did," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, but I told them to. I didn't think I could…"

"No, that's alright. That's probably better," he nodded solemnly. A long pause filled the kitchen as he glanced out the window at the paling sky. "Victoria."

Clara paused stirring her porridge and looked at John curiously. "I'm sorry…?"

"We should name her anyways, and I think Victoria would be nice."

Oh. "Victoria is lovely, but you don't want to save it?"

"No."

John went back to his porridge silently. Clara looked at him and sighed, her eyes trailing down to the bowl in front of her. She swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip.

"Victoria it is then," she said, her voice wavering. She tried to start her breakfast, but it was impossible now. It was all she could do to not burst into tears as she sat there; it did not matter what John had said the night before, because Clara knew she was a failure as both a mother and a wife. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she put her face in her hands and propped her elbows on the table.

A couple moments passed and she jerked back at the feeling of his hands on hers. She looked up and saw him towering over her, the corners of his mouth twisted up ever-so-slightly and his eyes brimming with adoration. After carefully leading her out of the kitchen to sink down onto the sitting room couch, John gently pulled Clara into his lap. He tucked her head underneath his chin and rubbed her back.

"Go ahead," he murmured. "It's okay."

"…but you should be getting ready for work…"

"Today's Sunday. I wouldn't go anyways."

"Oh…" Clara said, her voice trailing off. It felt as if it was still Saturday to her; everything was such a haze that she could barely tell what was what anymore. "John… I think I'm going to stay home from work tomorrow. I don't know if I can handle the kids just yet."

"Stay as long as you like," John said. He swung his legs up onto the length of the couch and cuddled Clara protectively between the back cushion and his chest. "I can stay, a couple days at least. Will said he'd give that to me."

"…but John…"

"…but _nothing_ , Clara," he snapped. He held her tighter and shoved his face into the couch to muffle his cracking voice. "I thought I could have lost you _and_ Victoria yesterday. Do you realize how scared I was?"

Reaching back into her mind, she did remember him saying such a thing. It felt like so long ago and, if she was honest, as if it had been only something to say while engulfed in grief.

"You thought you lost me?"

"Yes." John removed his face from the cushions and kissed the top of Clara's hair, barely keeping his composure. "I thought there was a very real chance you were dead, that you both died or I was going to have to raise a child alone. Victoria can't be replaced, but we can adopt children if that's what it ends up coming down to—I don't care. None of it would be the same without you there with me… and that's _terrifying_."

' _Oh my God, he thought I had **died**_ ,' she thought, making her physically ill to think about what it must have been like for him on the way to the hospital the day before. She sniffled as she went back in time and remembered the root cellar, with the handgun tucked away amongst the emergency rations. Clara knew he had told her that it had just been an afterthought when he packed it—that he'd by no means even think of such a thing now—but the fact it was even a thought at all, no matter how small, stirred and sat in her mind, screaming as it continually reminded her it once existed. She felt no obligation from it, but only worry and fear for her husband's sense of self-perseverance.

Clara scrunched up her face and closed her eyes as John kept holding her. It was so unlike him to be weepy that the aftershocks of the hand they had been dealt were likely to keep him from being the John she knew best for a while. Mourning did that to people, she had to remind herself, and it would likely be a long time before either of them recovered.

Time passed and John eventually calmed back down enough to let go of Clara and allow her to return to the kitchen to resume breakfast. He had just finished washing his face in the bathroom sink when the phone rang _their_ ring, five short and a long, and he quickly made a dash for the receiver.

"Smith Residence," he said, voice hoarse and grating. Clara heard a pause before her husband put on a false laugh. "Oh, no, something just accidentally went down the wrong pipe two seconds before you called. It's nothing. What's the ring for?" Another pause and his voice shifted from forced to genuinely shocked. "Wait, _already_? When did she go in? Where is she at?" He wrote something down and tore the page from the pad. "Alright, I'll see you Verity. Just give me some time to get over there." He hung up the phone and nearly staggered into the kitchen, stunned.

"What's wrong?" Clara asked. John shook his head, leaning up against the sink.

"Nothing's wrong," he replied. "Collette had her baby early this morning; Verity was calling because I promised to go with her to visit. It's a different hospital, at least."

"If you promised, then you should go," she said. He looked back at her, seeing that her eyes were locked on her cold porridge. "A couple hours apart will do us some good, but no more, okay?"

"You got it, boss." He crossed the kitchen and kissed the top of her head, placing a cautious hand on her shoulder. Clara took his hand in hers and looked up at him, trying to lie without words that she would be fine.

"If anyone asks, I caught the flu," she said. "That should keep questions about me at bay for at least a little while."

"The flu means bedrest, so eat up," John replied. He left the kitchen so Clara could finish her breakfast. When she went to find where he had wandered off to, she found him in the bedroom propping up pillows and setting up the nightstand with their small radio and books.

"What's this?" she asked. He gave her a smile and continued fussing.

"I don't care what we're calling it; you _do_ need to take it easy," he said. "Go ahead and change into something more comfortable—you've been wearing that since yesterday."

Clara looked down at her clothes and realized with a twist of her gut that he was right. She shed her skirt and blouse and changed into a nightgown, leaving her other clothes on the floor. John helped her back into bed and made sure she was upright and tucked in before heading back towards the kitchen. He returned with a tea tray that he put next to her on the bed, which held the teapot in its cozy, along with some little snacks.

"I'll be back before you know it," he assured. John then went into the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out a paper bag, one Clara knew had a toy he had come home with just the previous week, claiming it was the first thing he bought with their daughter in-mind. "I want to see you there when I return, okay? Don't feel like you need to do anything; you're my responsibility right now and I'm going to take care of you."

"I'm not an invalid…"

He put the bag down on the end of the bed and carefully sat on the edge of the mattress next to her. "Let me do this, to make it up to you. It's nowhere near enough… but it's a start."

"It's not your…" Clara began. Her husband cut her off by gently putting a forefinger to her lips before leaning in to softly kiss her.

"I'll see you in a couple hours," he murmured. "I… I love you, Clara, for better or worse."

"I love you too."

Sighing heavily, John stood back up and left the flat, taking the paper bag with him. As soon as the door was shut and the lock was latched, Clara's hand shot up to her mouth as she began to chew her nails in worry. How long would it take them before everything came crashing down around them? Things were far from settled, that she knew for certain. She turned on the radio to some music and turned it up loud, trying to drown out everything else.

* * *

John's hand cramped awkwardly as he and Verity rode together in the empty lift. The paper bag in his hand was allowing a stiffness to well up through his palm and wrist, but he did not much care.

"So where's Clara?" Verity asked. They had met one another in front of the hospital, so the question had yet to come up. "Considering how long the two of you have been waiting, I would have thought she'd be all over this."

"She's at home, resting," he answered. "You know that flu that's been going around the school—we're thinking she might've caught a touch of it." It was far from the truth, but she didn't need to know that quite yet. "She sends her love though, and a promise of many nappy changes."

"You and that English girl of yours, I swear," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. The lift then opened on their floor and they got out, eventually finding their way to the maternity ward and Collette's bedside.

"There you are!" she grinned. The young woman looked tired, though so incredibly happy John felt his heart shatter. With the infant in her arms, she looked brighter than ever. "Duncan should be right back—he's getting me some fresh clothes for when I go home tomorrow. Did you run into my mam and dad on the way in?"

"Not that I could see," Verity replied. She hunched over the baby and tickled its chin. "And who is this that's been causing such a fuss?"

"Donald," Collette beamed. "Duncan's dad is going to be _thrilled_ , since that was his brother's name. Would you like to hold him while he's still awake?"

"Held one and you've held them all," Verity shrugged. She turned back to John and pointed at the bundle in the younger woman's arms. "You've never held one that I'm aware. How about some practice before you and Clara have a go?"

"S-sure," he said. John put the paper bag down on the floor and approached Collette cautiously. The newborn looked up at him quizzically as his mother passed him over, careful to not allow his head to remain unsupported. Once he was securely in John's arms, she leaned back and smiled.

"You're the first man that's held Donny who he hasn't cried for," Collette mentioned. She watched as her coworker sank down onto the nearby chair, his knees too weak to stay standing.

"Is that so?" Verity chuckled. "Looks like we've got a natural; your dad skills are going to be sharp as a tack once you have one of your own, aren't they?"

"Shut up," John said sternly, glaring at Verity from underneath his eyebrows. She blinked curiously.

"Excuse you… I'm only teasing," she said. John chose to ignore her, turning back to the confused-looking boy in his arms.

"Hey there Donny," he whispered. "You don't know me yet, but I'm your twelfth-cousin, maybe thirteenth; not too clear on which man was which when you go that far back. I hope you'll know me as your Uncle Johnny though, and my wife as your Auntie Clara. She couldn't come today, but the two of you will meet soon enough." He looked up at Collette and grinned, his eyes wet and sore. "To think I remember chasing you out of my garden, and now I'm holding your wee bairn."

"You're so dramatic, John," Collette giggled. "What's in the bag?"

"Oh, that's right…" He reached down and with his free hand took a small stuffed animal out. "I caught you a tiger, lad. His name is Timmy and I hear he came all the way from India just to see you." John pressed the toy's nose to Donny's in an attempt to get a reaction. The newborn yawned heavily and closed his eyes, promptly falling asleep. "Maybe I should wait a little bit before I begin with the stories."

"Well, if that's how a captive audience reacts to your work, then I pity your next editor," Verity snarked. Once she ended up on the wrong end of John's piercing glare a second time, she and Collette watched very carefully as he fawned over the sleeping boy. For holding a coworker's child, an honorary nephew and such a distant relation there was barely any blood shared at all, he seemed to adore the baby unconditionally. Inside, John knew he was merely projecting emotions, and that the feeling would pass, but he simply felt so right that he knew it was going to be tough to hand the boy back. When he eventually had to, it also earned him a look of concern from the new mother.

"John, are you okay?" Collette asked.

"Of course I am; why wouldn't I be?"

"You're crying," she said. John wiped his cheeks on his sleeve—he _had_ been crying, more of an eye-leak, really. He simply shrugged it off.

"Never held a baby before." She didn't need to know, not yet. Let the boy grow a little before levying the bad news. "Just imagine how much of a mess I'll be with my own child."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Verity said. She watched as John morosely fiddled with the toy tiger before placing it down on the bed next to Collette. "Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," he lied. "I was just thinking about keeping a story or two about Timmy filed away for later—some of the best tales start as the ones you tell children."

"I'm sure," Collette agreed. She bounced her son in her arms and playfully scrunched her face at him, blissfully unaware of her old coworker's troubles.


	38. June 1944

It had taken two whole weeks for Clara to feel well enough to return to work, her "touch of the flu" ending up conveniently explaining away her quick loss of weight and an appetite that had yet to fully recover. She had been able to convince John to return to the shipyard that first Wednesday already, but otherwise he hovered around her and clung to her side and made sure the most strenuous thing she had to do was walk to and from the bathroom. He even took his lunch hour to come home and make her more tea, something he never could have done had they still been living in the house on Wissforn or in the school thanks to both locations' distance from the shipyards. It made her feel guilty and wretched, but her protests were always met with an assuring caress and a soft kiss across her lips.

The morning she went back, however, he was on pins and needles the entire day. He was grouchy and irritable to the point of Verity noticing, a feeling which only subsided when he returned home to the smell of dinner cooking and the sight of his wife milling about the kitchen. The veg ended up overcooked, but over-limp carrots and mushy peas was more than payment enough for Clara to slip into her husband's lap and kiss him as he held her thankfully (until the pots began to boil over, at least). They spent that night cuddled close as they went to sleep listening to the neighbor's latest argument.

The weeks slowly began to pass, the couple trying to heal as they went along. Eventually, dawn broke early on a Tuesday morning as Clara blearily woke up to her husband's arm around her hips and his nose buried between her shoulder blades. She wrenched herself free from his grasp and kissed him good morning before shuffling off towards the kitchen. Beans, bacon, sausage, toast, eggs, a large pot of tea, and a fried tomato. John came into the kitchen just as she put the plates down on the table, dressed for work and looking rather confused at the spread.

"What's the occasion?" he asked. She put the teapot on the table and played with his fluff of hair untamed from bedtime before sitting down herself.

"Birthday," she replied plainly. He paused before nodding, raising his mug in a toast before taking the first sip.

"We will make it."

"We'll do her proud."

Clara sipped her tea and began to slowly eat her breakfast. Eventually, she was reduced to poking at her beans before she spoke again, avoiding looking away from her plate.

"John? Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

"I was thinking about maybe…" She took another calming sip of her tea and breathed. "What if I don't go back to work after the summer? Would that be alright with you?"

"It's _your_ job; I think that's _your_ decision," John replied. He reached across the table and held Clara's hand. "We'll be fine. Do what you think is right."

"That's the problem: I don't know if it is right or not," she said. She finally looked up at him and smiled weakly. "It's so hard sometimes to get through the week, but the children all love me so much…"

"You have to take care of yourself first before you can take care of others," he mentioned. He let go of her hand and began eating again. "You already do a lot of caring when it comes to me. It's getting to the point where I'm going to have to start introducing you as my carer and not my wife."

"Making up words now?" Clara chuckled, albeit weakly. She glanced across the table at John, who grinned through a mouthful of sausage, and sighed. "I guess I do have to worry about us first…"

"… _you_ first…"

"…me first before the kids. Now that I'm just a regular teacher, even though it's hectic, I don't have nearly as much riding on me now. Everyone has their home to go to and I haven't had to place anyone in…" Trying to think of it made her trail off.

"…three years," John supplied.

"Wow… it's been that long?" She laughed sadly, her gaze out of focus. "They don't need me anymore, do they?"

"It's not that you're not needed, it's not like that," he said. He finished up the last of his breakfast and downed his tea before he stood up and walked around the table to kneel down next to Clara and hold her face in his hands. "You're always needed, but no one can blame you if you think you've given all you can. You can do whatever you want, honest, if that means to stay a teacher for always or quit this year or quit after the war. It doesn't matter to me. Just promise me one thing."

"What…?"

"Don't regret whatever you do. You can balance your lives well, the one at work and the one at home, but I don't want you to look back on these days in twenty years and think them wasted."

"They're not wasted if they're with you," she replied. "It's just… if I don't have point anymore, then what am I still doing where I'm at?"

"Making wee rascals less of pudding brains, giving them a chance in the world." He kissed her gently and traced her cheekbones with his thumbs. "You're making stories to tell our bairns when we finally have them, so that they'll be proud of their mam for being so brave. Their granddad fought twice, their dad fought and built ships, but their mam always has been made of the special stuff."

"Don't talk as if they're going to happen," Clara said quietly. "I told you the results of the tests…"

"…and I still think that doctor is talking out of his pompous arse," John replied. "As far as I know, we'll have children. No matter how we'll have them, we'll have them." He stood back up and left another kiss on her nose, forcing a smile for her. "I have to get ready now, okay?"

She nodded and went through the motions as her husband prepped for another long day at work. Once he was out the door, lunch in-hand and kissed goodbye, Clara began to dig through the bottom of the wardrobe for an old box she had from her office. Notecards bound with a cracking rubber band came out, along with a pencil and sharpener. She brought everything into the kitchen and began to write on the one side of the notecards, arranging them around the table before she had nearly the entire surface covered in paper and wood shavings.

' _Age_ ,' said one, as much as it sickened her to see. ' _London_ ,' said another. _Teaching. Stress. Victoria. Dad. Sterile? Ships vs. Books. Children. The cellar. Gwen and Ruby. Return after summer? Donny and Collette. Given my all. Twenty-eight. Wissforn. War's end? I love you._

She looked at the assortment, definitely a collection of words and phrases that would confuse many people despite making perfect sense to her, and exhaled heavily. These were her cards, where all the thoughts that could fit on the table lie. It was like going to the Promenade with her friends as a girl and finding a tent with an old lady that smelled of too much perfume and wore too much rouge so that they could giggle over their fortunes. Clara fell out of the habit quickly, when the woman repeatedly found little in her future compared to the wealth of things to talk about in her friends' lives. She found that woman was a charlatan and a fraud, conning young women and tourists of their pocket money. This was the true stack of fortune cards before her, not the inverse-whatever and suits of cups and pentacles, and it was here she poured her faith into little scraps of stiff paper.

Clara stared at the cards for a long time, sorting her thoughts and making up her mind. When the timer she had set earlier went off, she left the display and hurried to prepare for her own job. She left the cards on the table to sit and stew while she was at work, glad for the time she had to continue before John came home from the yards.

She was going to figure this out. Her husband could say all the kind words he could think of; the fact of the matter was that they needed a better plan, and she was going to create one even if it took days or weeks to hammer out in the hours between when he left for the day and trudged back in to flop on the couch and nap before dinner. It was going to happen, because they were going to make it.


	39. July 1944

"Thank you so much, again, for minding Donny this weekend," Collette said as she passed the five-month-old to Clara. They were in the Smiths' sitting room, Clara having just gotten home from errands and John not yet returned from work. "I really don't know how to make it up to you."

"Relax—it's not your fault your best friend's getting married in Dorchester of all places," Clara chuckled. She bounced the baby in her arms and clucked her tongue. "We're going to behave for Aunt Clara and Uncle John, aren't we?" The baby gurgled in reply, not entirely sure of what was happening.

"Oh, I'm sure he will," Collette smiled. She stroked her son's hair and kissed his forehead. "Behave for Auntie Clara, alright Donald? Mam and Dad will be back before you know it…"

"Go, go Collette or you'll miss the train!" Clara insisted, pushing her towards the door. She and Collette hugged one another before the other woman turned and scampered out the door, Clara and Donny quickly finding themselves alone.

Sighing to herself, Clara picked up Donny's bag and brought it and the baby into the kitchen. She put him on the ground long enough to fish a child's chair from the bag and clip it on to the side of the table. Moments later the boy was in his seat, wiggling and squirming in an attempt to flee.

"Nuh-uh, none of that," Clara said. She sat down at her seat and tickled the baby under his chin. He giggled and drooled in glee. "Sorry I'm your only playmate right now, but your Uncle John's still at work and… Victoria sends her love."

Donny scrunched up his face and looked at his temporary guardian questioningly. He watched her as she went into his bag and brought out a plush toy tiger, which he happily took and began to chew on. Glad to see he was not crying for his mum, Clara began to unpack the rest of the bag—bottles for the refrigerator and clean nappies for later—and began to sort herself for dinner. She was almost ready to put her veg casserole in the oven when she heard John come in the flat.

"In the kitchen!" she called out. A pair of heavy boots dropped to the floor unceremoniously and Clara heard her husband choke in surprise when he entered the room.

"Clara, why is Donny here?" John asked. "Is Collette running errands?"

"No; we're minding him for the weekend," Clara explained. She popped the casserole pan in the oven and turned towards John, who appeared to be thoroughly confused. "Collette rang up and asked me if we could watch him while she went to a wedding in Dorset last-minute. She can't take him because her friend doesn't want any children there and you _did_ tell her we would always be willing to babysit."

"I told her that last year…" John recounted.

"I know, but what she never knew is not going to hurt any less." Clara turned back around and began to fetch plates from the cupboard. "Are you going to shower first or eat first?"

"Uhh… shower."

"Okay then." She closed the cupboard, plates in-hand, and began to set the table. "Dinner will be ready when you're done." Clara crept up on her toes and kissed her husband on the cheek. "Go on, now."

John nodded and returned the kiss before slowly backing out of the kitchen, staring at their babbling guest. He went and quickly showered, put on clean clothes, and rejoined his wife. She was sitting down at the table, the casserole resting on the stovetop, and feeding Donny mushed carrots. A picked-through pile of casserole was sitting on her plate.

"Help yourself," she said, not taking her eyes off the baby. John took his plate and scooped up some dinner before sitting down—he ate silently, taking in the scene before him.

It took until Clara gave Donny his bottle before he said anything. "So it's just the weekend?"

"Yeah," she replied, shoving some casserole on her fork. "I probably shouldn't have taken him, but I just couldn't say no."

"…and I wouldn't have blamed you, no matter what you said," he nodded. John put his fork down and tickled the boy's cheek. "He's a hardy-looking lad, wouldn't you say? Looks like his mam."

"He does," Clara agreed quietly. She watched John pet Donny's hair, a glint of sorrow flashing in his eyes, leaving as quickly as it appeared. "I bet he's going to grow up to be quite the ladies' man."

"Not if he ends up favoring his dad," John said. He leaned down and kissed the boy on the brow before turning back to his dinner. "Duncan and Collette are proof… proof…"

"…proof of what?"

"…that opposites attract," he finished, his voice barely audible. Tears stung his eyes as he stood up brusquely, avoiding looking at his wife. "Sorry—I just…"

"Should I save your plate?" she asked. John nodded in response and left for the bedroom, the door to which he shut behind him. Clara sighed sadly and placed a tea towel over his plate before putting it in the refrigerator to keep. She went back to her own dinner, which suddenly didn't look nearly as appetizing as it did before.

Donny babbled at Clara, his pudgy baby arms flopping about, and tossed his bottle on the table. She gave it back to him and took a deep breath to steady herself. "Sorry about Uncle John," she apologized. "He's usually pretty good these days, but obviously not _all_ days." The baby looked at her curiously, not yet able to process her words. "Tomorrow's Saturday, so how about you and me take a walk in the park while Uncle John's at work, yeah? I don't have a pram, but I can borrow one from down the hall, and we can make a day of it. A picnic… what do you say?"

Babbling some more, Donny slammed his now-empty bottle on the table and smacked his hands on the false-wooden surface. Clara took the bottle and gave him back his toy tiger while she cleaned up dinner, putting together the leftovers for John to take to work the next day. She cleaned up the dishes, called the neighbor to inquire about the pram, and took Donny into the sitting room to let him move about and play. As she crossed the sitting room, she leaned in close to her bedroom door and listened for sounds of her husband. It was muffled, but Clara was sure she heard him muttering to himself. She left him be—chances are he wouldn't want her to see him in a state. Not about this, anyways.

A few hours passed and Donny began to yawn and sway as he struggled to stay upright. Clara cooed as she scooped him up, rubbing their noses together playfully. She was about to enter the kitchen to get his bag when John opened the bedroom door, surprising her.

"Bedtime?" he asked, voice hoarse and cracking. She looked up at him to see that his face was red and puffy, with crust around his eyes and nostrils.

"Yeah," she replied. "Just a new nappy and then bed… though I don't know…"

"Give 'im here," John said, holding out his arms. "Uncle Johnny wants a turn in before it's light's out."

"Okay," Clara said. She passed the boy over and went back into the kitchen for his bag. Passing a clean nappy over to John on her way back through the sitting room, she watched as he changed it out and took the soiled one to flush the solids away and throw the nappy itself in the hamper. She exited the bathroom only to find John and Donny nowhere in sight—they were quickly found in the bedroom, where John had placed the now-sleeping child on the bed and was undressing.

"I'm tired too," he explained. "Should probably take a cue from the wee rascal."

"Go finish your dinner, and then all three of us can go to bed," she said.

"I'm not hungry…"

"You barely ate." Clara inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring. "It's in the fridge. Just… do that for me, please."

Silently nodding, John left the room and soon Clara could hear him shuffling around in the kitchen. She dressed herself for bed and slid in under the covers. Settling down, she tried not to disturb Donny, who flailed his limbs as he slept, reminding her of star jumps. Chuckling quietly, she brushed the hair from his face and pressed a fingertip to his nose.

"Goodnight," she whispered. No sooner had she closed her eyes did John walk back into the room and join them. Clara opened her eyes back up to see him staring across the pillows at her, one arm stretched across the bed as he stroked her hair.

"I should really learn to eat my dinner at dinnertime if I'm to avoid a scolding," he murmured. Clara frowned at him.

"You're not cross, are you?" she asked.

"Never," he assured. "Just… sad."

"I'm sorry…"

"Hey, you have nothing to be sorry about," he said. He scraped his thumb against her cheekbone, wiping a tear away. "Whatever it is you feel the need to apologize for, it should be the very last thing on the list."

Clara sniffled and put her hand on John's, holding it tight. "I was going to take Donny on a walk to the park tomorrow; want me to wait so you can come?"

"That won't seem too odd, you think?"

"No… I think it will be just right." She exhaled in relief as John craned his neck forward and kissed her before settling in for the night. His hand traveled down her arm and rested at her elbow as he allowed himself to slip into sleep.

* * *

The following morning started with John being woken by Donny, the boy smacking his face in order to wake him up. He chuckled and lifted the boy above his head, eliciting a shriek of glee that woke Clara with a start. She watched as he shook the baby gently, enough to get another giggle, before snatching the child away and rolling out of bed for the day.

"Oh, come on Clara…" John whined. "I go in late today anyways…"

"Only by an hour," she reasoned. Donny wriggled and resisted her grip as she carried him out the bedroom and towards the kitchen, only letting him go when he was securely in his chair. He sputtered angrily, clearly upset by his lack of fun, until Clara gave him a toy to play with. The two then went about their morning routine—she putting together breakfast and he trying to eat his own fingers—until John walked in, dressed save for his shirt.

"Morning post came early," he mentioned, shuffling through a small clump of envelopes in his hand.

"Anything from Dad?" Clara asked as she scraped some butter over toast.

"Yes. Actually, there's a couple things for you," John said, placing two letters on her side of the table. "You're lucky—I just have this month's rent and another letter soliciting volunteers."

"Grass is greener," she replied with a chuckle, putting their breakfast down on the table. After using a clean knife from the utensil canister to open the letters, Clara got her food together before reading. The one from her father was the usual same-old: awful camp food this and cold enough to freeze unmentionables despite summer that. It was standard fare. The second letter, however, paused her breakfast as she read through it. Her eyes grew wider and rounder with each passing line.

Noticing the lack of movement coming from his wife, John stopped eating and watched her. "Is everything alright?"

"It's… it's the agency… the one I worked for before the bombing…" she replied, voice quiet. "They apologize for bothering me again, but they want to know if I can come back to work." Both adults froze, staring at one another with parted lips and raised eyebrows.

"What… what would that mean?" John asked. "They can't expect you to up and transfer now, with your other full-time job and marriage…"

"No, it would be here, in my off hours, managing other teachers as they bring their students north," Clara replied. "I'd help them find places too, but with the robot bombs hitting London they can't get the kids out fast enough."

"It's not even been a month—wait a moment, you mean there's still that many children in London?"

"Lots returned, and even more never left," she said, scanning the rest of the letter. "They want my reply as soon as I can post it."

"…and do you know your reply?" John took another bite of toast and rubbed the top of his foot along one of Clara's calves. "Don't be too hasty. Remember that you still haven't given the school your answer about returning for next year either."

"I know," she said. She gently placed the letter down on the table and went to get Donny the bottle that she had been letting warm on the counter. The boy took his bottle happily and began to suck it down with fervor, allowing her to sit and skim the letter again. "This could make me _useful_."

"You're useful _now_ ," John insisted. "It's stress that partly put us where we're at the begin with."

"…and it's stress that I'll gladly keep, if it means that I can be of more help," Clara said. She tickled Donny's chin and gave the baby a smile before turning to her husband. "You understand, right?"

"Of course I do," he nodded. Reaching across the table, he took one of her hands in his and squeezed gently. "Just make sure this is what you want."

"It's something else to do… of course it's what I want," she said. "Since it's summer, I can set up the regimen before going back to work, and come September, everything will be already in-motion. If it's too much work once I'm teaching again, I can delegate duties until it isn't."

"So if things do happen again…"

"Everything will be fine," Clara assured. "Maybe, this is just the thing I needed, that we needed, in order to get through this." She glanced back down at the official agency letterhead in front of her and beamed—helping other people with their children was why she originally came to Scotland, after all.

John let go of Clara's hand and downed the rest of his tea. "Time to go; I get off at noon today, so how about we make that walk a picnic?"

"That sounds great," she agreed. Her gaze still focused on the wording of the paper before her, Clara's heart began to flutter as she took in the idea that she was still able to do this, despite all that had happened between the last agency letter and that one.

She was in the middle of reading the letter the third time through when Donny began to whimper. One whiff and Clara knew what the boy needed, so she picked him up and began to carry him into the sitting room. As she changed out nappies, John emerged fully-dressed from the bedroom and began to put on his boots. By the time he was done, the nappy change was as well, and his wife and honorary nephew met him at the door.

"Uncle John's going to be back in a few hours," she told the baby. Donny drooled excessively as she held him out for John to kiss, which he did before leaning down to give her one of her own.

"Make sure the lad doesn't grow too much on you," he chuckled. "His mam's expecting him back on Monday."

"Not a problem," Clara replied. With a tap of his rear she ushered her husband out the door. She bounced Donny in her arms as he yawned. "Oh, no, too early for you to be doing that. Come and help me pick out my dress for today, _then_ you can take a short nap. Aunt Clara wants to look her best while on our walk." The boy thunked his forehead against her chest in reply—he had no choice but to comply with her wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "robot bombs" mentioned above are the V1 rockets that began pummeling the UK shortly after the Allied push into France in June of 1944. As the predecessor of today's guided cruise missiles, they were enough to force the evacuation of a larger volume of high-priority civilian populations (children, their mothers, their teachers, the elderly, etc.) to the countryside. After the Battle of Britain, many evacuees did return home and others never even bothered leaving, instead finding solace in bomb shelters. Once die Kirschkerne started hitting London, lots more people got the frick out of Dodge and stayed that way until the end of the war, possibly until the last launch site was liberated in early 1945. Pick your poison.
> 
> On a lighter note, I have no idea whether or not clip-on-the-table baby chairs were available/invented during this time period (probably not), but it's one of those things that I'd rather not worry about. Like prevailing geological strata. Also, Donny, if he were a real person, would be seventy-one years old next month. Voi.


	40. Late September 1944

Clara Smith _knew_ that, for some unknown reason, someone at the agency office in London had everything wrong. Maybe it was a memory warped by time, maybe it was jumbled information, maybe it was an incorrect assumption by those she never even met, but whatever the case may have been, it was certainly beginning to grate on her nerves.

"Are you really Mrs. Smith?" the man asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway to her office. He had introduced himself as Mr. Stoker; he was young, well-dressed, and thoroughly baffled at the woman before him being clearly his junior by at least five years. At least this one seemed more surprised than insulted, as the last one had been. "I'm sorry—I guess I was expecting someone a little more… matronly."

"Everyone seems to expect someone a little more matronly, Mr. Stoker," she sighed through her sandwich. "I'm beginning to think that the agency is giving off the impression I was someone's old maiden aunt until I moved up here." She beckoned him in, having him sit down on the part of the couch that had a blanket draped over it. He put his bag on the floor in front of him as he sat. "So, your students are arriving tomorrow, I take it?"

"Please, call me Jim, and my class is coming the day after, with another teacher from the school," he replied. "It's not a very big catchment area, so the class sizes are small enough for one teacher to go ahead to prepare and the other to double up during transport. I was told we're staying here a week?"

"Yes; it was supposed to be only three days, but the host family had to back out for personal reasons and the second option's most recent train left yesterday," Clara nodded. She chuckled as she watched the man's nose wrinkle curiously.

"Is that… rosemary I smell?" he asked.

"Hobby of my husband's; we had to live here for a spell and I haven't been able to get the scent out since," she laughed.

"Your husband moved up here with you? That's dedication," Stoker marveled. Before Clara could correct him, he fished a set of papers out of his jacket pocket and handed them to her. "Here's the list of students in both my class and Ford's. We weren't given much information, other than that you'd help."

Scanning the list quickly, Clara was able to put together that everything was in order. "There's a room on the other end of the building that's not being used right now—that's the room we have set aside for you, Ford, and the students until the train for Ferness leaves next week. There are sleeping mats in the corner and meals are served regularly in the kitchen and during the day you have full use of the facilities for teaching purposes."

"That's it?" he asked. "I thought I'd have to do a lot more than just wait around."

"I took care of all of that, since I have a better idea of who to write and where," she said. The bell to end lunch rang and the roar of children returning to classes began to grow. Grabbing his elbow, Clara pulled Mr. Stoker and his bag along until they were out in the hall. "End of the corridor, left-hand side. That's the one I have reserved for the London groups."

"Thank you," he said. With a polite nod he walked down to the end of the hall, disappearing in the appropriate door just as kids began to pour out of the stairwell and begin to filter towards their respective classrooms.

"Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith!" a little boy shouted as he bounced up to his teacher. "We heard that a man from London is looking for you! Is it true we're getting more kids from London?"

"Yes it is, Peter," she affirmed. "They're staying here a week in the spare room down the hall."

"…but when are we going to get some kids from London to _stay_?" he asked. "They're always so _interesting_!"

"Promise you'll share your room with twenty other kids, some of them girls, and then we'll talk," Clara smirked. She watched as the boy scowled and zoomed back into the classroom with his mates; eight years old and never satisfied.

* * *

The end of classes came and went and eventually Clara found herself alone in the school as the sun set. She was writing soliciting letters, the act feeling so familiar it was almost second-nature. The radio was tuned to some music—a light and airy orchestra piece—and she was beginning to nod off in the warm building. She folded her arms on the desk and put her head down for just a moment when a hand lightly touched her back, jolting her awake.

"Whoa, hey, it's only me," John said as he jumped back, nearly dropping the paper bag in his arm. Clara looked up at her husband and realized the classroom was much darker than she had remembered. The radio had been shut off and the light above her switched on.

"Oh no—I must have fallen asleep," she groaned as he sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry… you had to have been worried."

"I figured that's what happened, so I thought I'd go and see what I could do about invoking the old days," he chuckled, placing the bag next to him. Out came two orders of chips and a couple bottles of beer. He passed one of each to Clara as she sat on the other side of the bag, thankfully eating the meal.

Eventually they were done and the papers and bag disposed of, leaving the couple to finish nursing down their drinks. Clara reached across the bit of cushion between her and her husband and held his hand solemnly.

"Thanks," she said quietly. It was not often he came down to the school anymore, and the memories now invoked by his presence made her feel somewhat melancholy. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he replied. John sipped his beer and kept looking ahead, concentrating on a binder in the bookcase. "You do realize this is the fifth time this month, right?"

"I'm sorry…?" she asked, confused. This was the first time he had been in her office in months, and his tone was far from accusatory.

"I came home and you weren't there." Oh. He squeezed her hand and frowned into his bottle. "I don't have to tell you what that makes me think of."

"No, you don't," she replied quietly. Clara finished off her beer and slipped out of her shoes, drawing her legs up beneath her as she curled into John's side. "I've been busy."

"Not too busy, I hope," he said. "You're a grown woman, but you need to think about your health, Clara. Are you sure this hasn't been too much too soon?"

"I did it before and I can do it again," she insisted.

"A lot has happened between now and then though. You're not the same… _we're_ not the same…"

"…but we said we'd make it, didn't we?" She nuzzled her face into his shoulder as his arm came down from the backrest and draped along her waist. "We come home to each other, and that's what counts."

"Yeah, but how long before you're back to being frayed at all ends with school and errands and the agency bearing down at all sides? You never ran anyone errands on Wissforn." He gently tightened his hold on her, tucking her head beneath his chin.

"People on Wissforn didn't have four flights of stairs to deal with and no lift, not to mention the fact they all hated me."

"Stop wearing yourself thin," he sighed. "You're so stretched you fell asleep at your desk—imagine what would have happened had I not come here with dinner? Would you have slept there through the night? I've gone to bed without you before, but I never want to _wake up_ without you, not like that." He kissed her hair and rubbed her hip gently. "Come on, let's go home. It's a lovely night for a walk."

"I'm not wearing myself too thin, John," Clara insisted. They stood up and she rummaged around for her purse, from which she produced the key to lock up the office. "If anything you're worrying too much. It's just a bit more work and I'll be used to it again by the middle of October for certain."

"I don't want to have to drag you from another hospital looking like a disaster," he said, looking around the classroom. It was dimly lit from the twilight outside, leaving faint shadows along the walls and floor. "I'm surprised we didn't get stopped by anyone."

"You were ready to kill—I'm not surprised in the slightest," she mentioned. Hooking her arm around his, they walked out of the classroom and made their way through the building and into the night air.

* * *

It was after school and Clara had just collected her post from the office. Most were reply letters from addresses she recognized as places she had written recently, but there were one or two that she needed to double-check in her address book before she opened them. She was so busy concentrating on flipping through the envelopes that she did not see Mr. Stoker standing in the doorway of her classroom until she walked right into his back.

"Oh, there you are!" he said cheerily as he turned around. "I was just looking for you."

"I'm sorry, but I'm a little distracted at the moment," she replied, her face flushing with embarrassment. Clara edged her way around Stoker and returned to her office, where she put down the post and began to search for her addresses. The London man leaned against the office doorjamb, watching her.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "This seems a bit more than 'distracted'."

"No, I just have to make sure I get home, or I'm going to have a grumpy husband for a second night in a row," she explained. "It's nothing to worry about."

"Is that the bloke that I saw come in here last night?" he asked. She nodded, at which he tilted his head. "You? With that fossil? Really?"

"He's not a fossil and yes. That was my husband, John." She kept her eyes downcast as she flipped through the pages, cross referencing the mystery envelopes. "He keeps me very happy, thank you."

"You didn't sound happy," Stoker replied. Clara snapped him an acidic glare, her eyebrows furrowed in distaste.

"You were _spying_ on us…?!"

"Some old man goes into your room—I wanted to make sure he actually belonged there," he defended.

"Still, you shouldn't have been listening." She paused and stared at him before turning back down to her work. "What did you hear?"

"Enough to know that there's a problem between the two of you. The spark isn't there anymore, is it?"

"That's none of your business," she replied. There—one address matched. She took the other mystery envelope and began searching through the book.

"There's no shame in it—I mean, he said the two of you aren't the same anymore. That happens to men his age all the time." He put a hand on her shoulder, sending a chill down her spine. "You don't have to put on a brave face for me."

Clara immediately jammed all the envelopes in the binder and shut it, bolting up to her feet as she brushed the unwanted hand off her. "I think you may have gotten the wrong impression," she said, half a snarl. "Mr. Smith and I are perfectly happy with one another."

"Are you sure?" Stoker asked, unconvinced. His eyebrow raised and his lips splitting into a grin. "There's no way that relic can keep you as happy as you say."

"Well _one day_ I am going to have that relic's _children_ , provided doing so doesn't kill me, and until then he and I are perfectly content where we stand," she hissed. Clara pushed the man out of her office and grabbed her purse. Before Stoker could regain his balance again, she had locked the door and was storming out into the hall.

"…but…"

"I'll see you tomorrow _for work_ , Mr. Stoker. _Good night_ ," she said, not bothering to turn around. With her head held high she gripped her keys tightly in her fist all the way back to her flat. Once the bolt was set she exhaled heavily, her knees beginning to shake worse than gelatin. Clara sat down on the couch and turned the radio on, putting the volume on as loud as it could go. She leaned back and closed her eyes, not wanting to think.

A whole concert and a half passed and suddenly the radio turned silent. Her eyes flew open and she saw John, fresh home from work, hunched so far he bent nearly in half in an effort to look her over.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "You look terrible."

"John, if you love me, you are going to do two things for me," Clara said, very plainly.

"Umm… okay…?"

"First thing: go to the school right after work and pick me up for the next week. Don't question it, just do it."

John quirked his eyebrows. "And the second thing?"

"Take me to bed. Right now," she demanded.

"…but I haven't showered yet, and you'll get all filthy…"

"Then we'll shower together. Just please, do as you are told."

That settled it. John let out a low chuckle in his throat as he cupped Clara's face with one grimy hand as he leaned in to kiss her. She ran her fingers through his sweaty hair, tasting the salty, metallic residue on his skin as she kissed his lips and face and neck. He lifted her off the couch and she clung to his torso, barely willing to wait until they hit the mattress.

He was hers, and she was his. Nothing was going to change that, not ever, and the least they could do was not forget it in the shuffle of things.


	41. 8 May 1945

"Alright class, since we're all caught up with our primers I think we should have a little bit of free time to end the day," Clara announced. The class cheered; they had half an hour to do as they pleased, provided it didn't involve upsetting their teacher. Some of the kids took out other books to read, some sat on their desks and talked with one another, and some went to the back of the room to find the board games stashed in a cupboard. The kids were all occupied when the thin and cane-dependent assistant headmaster threw open the door and hobbled into the room.

"Mrs. Smith, you have a wireless, correct?" he asked in a panic. Clara looked at him nervously.

"Well, yeah. What's the matter Mr. Greene? Do you need to borrow it?"

"No, no, turn it on! Right now! So the kids can all hear!" Mr. Greene insisted. Clara went into her office and unplugged her radio to bring it out to the main of the classroom. The students went deafly quiet as she turned the device on and caught the middle of the broadcast.

"… _Today, perhaps, we shall think mostly of ourselves. Tomorrow we shall pay a particular tribute to our Russian comrades, whose prowess in the field has been one of the grand contributions to the general victory. The German war is therefore at an end. After years of inten_ —"

The class erupted into a ball of excitement, cutting off the rest of what the radio had to say. Clara and Mr. Greene gave one another a hug and a pat on the back before trying to calm down the students again. It was over.

The war was _over_.

It took a long while for Clara and Mr. Greene to calm the class down. Once the children were settled again, the broadcast had ended and it was nearing the time to go.

"Alright children, if you wait just a little while longer, I can let you go, but you're still going to have to sit a few minutes more," Clara explained. By now the students were jittery and antsy, unable to sit still, and it was no surprise that one of them noticed the visitor before the adults did.

"Hi Mr. Smith!" one of the kids exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"John…?" Clara gasped at the sound of his name. She turned towards the door and there he was, breathing heavily from running and still wearing his coveralls from work. Of course—the shipyard would have likely let the workers off early to celebrate. She ran over to the door and jumped into her husband's arms. John spun around once before putting her down and holding her shoulders at arm's length.

"Clara…" he whispered, just barely audible. The grin on his face stayed intact as he bent down and kissed her, giddy and euphoric. He broke the kiss and stared into her eyes, cupping her face with rough hands all blisters and callouses. His thumbs traced her cheekbones before he dove in for another, a little slower than the one before.

After parting a second time, Clara began to feel light-headed and airy as if she was not standing in front of two dozen eight-year-olds and her semi-boss. She opened her eyes and looked at John; his mouth was still twisted in happiness, but tears were beginning to well up in the corners of his now-glassy eyes.

"We made it," he said, so raspy and light that they were barely words. John brought one of his hands down to the small of Clara's back as he leaned into a third kiss. Deep, slow, precise, he kissed his wife with all the relief-tempered-passion he could muster while mentally drowning out a chorus of disgust from the children. She draped her arms around his neck to both keep him close and hold her steady.

The sound of Mr. Greene clearing his throat brought the couple back to reality, reminding them that they were still host to an audience. John's face went red as Clara turned towards her class that was still making false gagging noises.

"Now I would suggest that you cut that out or I will assign homework for tonight that I can assure will keep you from doing anything fun for the rest of the week," she said. The students quieted instantly, staring with wide eyes at their teacher.

"I'll leave you be now," Mr. Greene said, bowing his head as he left. Once he was gone, John kissed Clara on the cheek and began to quickly murmur in her ear.

"See you later tonight; I need to get back to the yards and take care of a few things yet," he said. "Shouldn't take me more than a couple hours at the most, depending on who all is left there."

"See you then," she smiled in reply. They pecked lips and he was off, disappearing into the hallway nearly as quickly as he arrived.

"Isn't Mr. Smith going to stay until the end of the school day?" one of the students asked. "It's not that long now."

"No, he has some other things to do—adults are very busy you know," she answered. The class then began to give their teacher more questions to field, brimming with curiosity if things such as rationing and needing blackout curtains would need to stop. She did not know, but deep inside she really did not care, for all she knew was that life was going to continue, and could continue positively.

* * *

From the time she arrived home, Clara felt as if there was nothing that could spoil her mood. She ran a load of linens through the wash and hummed happily while she began cleaning the rest of the flat. Time flew by as she cleaned and folded laundry and kept busy until John finally came home. He no longer had his coveralls tied around his waist, though the grin from before was still firmly affixed to his face. Without a word, they met in the middle of the sitting room and hungrily kissed, dropping down to the couch as they did so.

"I can't believe it," she breathed, gulping down air as they parted. She reached up and pulled John's face down to press their foreheads together, attempting to not cry. "Everything's going to change for the better, I just know it."

"As long as what's _important_ doesn't change, I'm ready for it," he replied. "I promise it's only going to go upwards from here."

Clara paused and gazed into her husband's eyes. "Wait a second… this means you can quit your job and go back to illustrating."

"In five weeks; I've already got it in with Will," he grinned. Pressing her down into the couch and giggling, John nuzzled his unshaven face into the crook of Clara's neck. "I'm going to quit and go back to doing what I was meant to do… not this twelve-hour-six-day shit where I'm hanging off the side of sheet metal all day and come home so tired I ache before you get to me."

"Then I already know what to do," she shivered contently. "We live off what I make until you need to go to London to sell your book. That's still the plan, right?"

"Always has been." He began to leave scratchy kisses along her neck and down where her blouse opened and left some of her chest exposed. "We can actually plan things now." Suddenly he stopped, his face hovering just above her breasts.

"What's the matter?" she asked. John propped himself up on his palms, beaming down at Clara with his face all gone lopsided.

"It's after the war," he said.

"Yes… and…?"

"We can…" He exhaled hesitantly, hoping his words were not sour ones. "We can have a child on-purpose now. Do you want to try again? On-purpose?"

"Wait… now? You mean this second?"

"Yeah, why not?" John's eyes glittered in hope, though it was a hope tempered by a memory he'd rather not relive. "I understand it's a bit soon, but usually it takes a while for people to get pregnant when they want to be, and…"

"John, at this point we might as well wait until we move to London," Clara laughed, interrupting him. She caressed his face as it fell in disappointment.

"My children will be English," he moaned. He leaned down so that he could whisper softly in her ear. "We've been able to not be visited by Uncle Jaime so far; I don't know why you want to risk his surly ghost haunting our wee babes because they had the misfortune of being born in _London_."

" _London_ is where my next child will be born," Clara insisted. "I'm willing to take the risk; your pipe-bleating uncle be damned."

"Oh, come on Clara…" John whined. He began to kiss her behind the ear and work his hands over her body. "Please? Just one try for now?"

"No, no John," she repeated. When it seemed like he was refusing to listen, she took hold of his wrists, forcing him to a sitting position with one hard shove. " _John,_ _ **stop**_." She slid backwards so as to sit up and look him in his wide, pleading eyes.

" _Clara_ …"

"Nine months from now will be the middle of the school year and who knows where you'll be with your book. London means _London_ , not London-bound."

Sighing sadly, he reached out and took her hand in his. He stroked her knuckles in understanding: she was right and they were going to have to wait. Clara leaned forward and kissed his cheek before climbing into his lap, bringing her hand up to run her fingers through his hair. "It really is too soon, isn't it?"

"It _is_ soon, yes, but not because we need to dwell on it. We need to give Victoria's siblings what we wanted to give her: a proper place to live with two living parents that can support them while doing what they love." She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "I want them too, but we have to keep our wits about us."

"I _am_ keeping my wits about me though," he reasoned. "I know I can be a great dad if given the chance…"

"I think you'll be an _incredible_ dad, but not here," she assured him. "A house in London first—or a family-sized flat if a house can't do—and _then_ we can think about working on children."

"Daughters, as clever and caring as their mam," he smirked, gently pulling Clara with him as he leaned backwards into the couch. She placed her head on his chest while he cradled her shoulders with an arm. "Mams like having daughters, right?"

She chuckled at that. "No sons to carry on the legacy?"

"Tch—the house on Wissforn was a legacy, and that had to pass through my granny, not my granddad," John scoffed. "I've already resigned myself to the fact all my loved ones right now are women, so why would I be upset even if we had five girls?"

"Five?" Clara choked, raising her eyebrows. "You're kidding, right?"

"Just say the word, my dear, and I'll give you your own football team if you want."

Clara rolled her eyes. "We'll talk about this later, okay? Let's enjoy today while we still can."

"Alright," John agreed. He waited until Clara climbed back to her usual spot on his waist to lean up into a kiss and embrace that held all the love and devotion as before, yet none of the blind excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup! It's the end of the war in Europe! V-E Day only marks the end of the European theatre of WWII. The campaigns for the Middle East, Africa, and the Mediterranean ended a few days before (2 May) and the Pacific War did not formally end until 2 September of the same year (though fighting for African territory was much more concentrated in the first few years of the war). Luckily for us it's not the end of the fic, so we still have some time on our hands.


	42. June 1945

Clara woke up to the alarm clock ringing shrilly, cutting through the early morning silence with great aplomb. She stretched her arm and attempted to smack the device off. Her reach was limited by the steadfast grip around her waist, but she succeeded anyways. She then slid back into her previous position, cocooned in arms and back flush against a chest, allowing her husband time to stir and slide his nose into her hair.

"Morning," he murmured. One of John's hands crept up from his wife's waist and found her chest as he rubbed his face in the back of her neck. "Sleep well?"

"Excellent," Clara said. She rolled over in bed to face him, but instead pushed down on his shoulder so that he lay on his back. Climbing up onto her husband's chest, she kissed him in her half-asleep haze. "Ready for the big day?"

"Oh, you know it," he grinned. He tapped his fingers down her spine and tilted his neck forward so as to reach her lips easier. "By dinnertime, I will have had the best day of work in nearly six years."

"That's the spirit," she replied. After another slow kiss, Clara eased herself off of him and shuffled out of the room towards the kitchen. She began toasting some bread and rummaging in the refrigerator for the jam and marmalade. John eventually joined her, trousers and braces on, and sat down at the table to eat. They ate in silence, feet touching idly underneath the table. Once she was finished, Clara stood and left, leaving John to clear the dishes and quickly wash them in the sink.

By the time dishes were cleaned and put away, Clara had finished getting ready for the day. She came out into the sitting room as John was exiting the kitchen.

"You look great," he said, taking in the sight of his wife before she left for work. It was rare for him to see her off, though he imagined that there would be much more of that now.

"Thanks. I'll see you later, yeah?" she said. "There's some leftovers in the refrigerator for when you fancy some lunch."

"I think I can survive on my own; I've done so before."

"Yes, but you could have forgotten in the last five years," she smirked. Clara arched up onto her toes and pecked John on the lips. "Behave, alright?"

"I plan on it."

After seeing Clara out the door, John sighed heavily and rummaged around the flat for a pad of paper and a pencil. Once he found them, he sat down on the couch, propping up his feet on the coffee table and tapping the end of the pencil on the pad.

' _What do I write?_ ' he wondered. He knew along what lines he needed to write—something simple and understandable, yet not dull and condescending—it was just a matter of figuring out how to present the material. His audience was still going to be young children, many of whom were likely to be headed back to their homes now, if they were not there already, and he needed something that they could understand, even possibly relate with. He thought and thought, absentmindedly doodling in the corner of the page until it hit him.

He had the story already; all he needed was to figure out where he put it.

Dropping the pencil and pad on the table, John stood up and quickly rushed over to the cupboard where he and Clara stored some of their old things salvaged from their house. He rummaged through it until he found a shoe box, which he took down from the shelf and began rifling through urgently. Eventually he found what he had been looking for and replaced the box back in the spot it came from.

"Let's see how much of you I don't hate yet," he muttered. Sitting back down on the couch, John spread out the crumpled, soiled pages filled with thumbnails on the table. It was a story already years old, where two little kittens have an adventure in the countryside as they traveled from their mother's house to visit their granddad and aunt. He was missing a couple thumbnails due to damage done long ago, though he remembered the entire story clear as day. He beamed happily—he had his book.

John spent the next few hours redrawing his thumbnails and tweaking the plot, altering dialogue here and composition there. He was nearly on the last page when the lock to the front door unlatched and Clara came walking in.

"Home for lunch?" he asked, not looking up from his work. She stared at him, worried.

"It's nearly dinnertime," she said. John glanced down at his watch—it _was_ nearly time for dinner. What had felt like only a couple hours ended up being the entire day, making his stomach gurgle at the realization.

"I didn't even notice the time," he said. Clara sighed and walked over to behind the couch, bending down and pressing a kiss into her husband's hair.

"Maybe I really should stay home and make sure you actually do things like eat," she said gently. John shook his head.

"No… I should be fine after today. I just got wrapped up in all this," he explained. Fanning his hand out to present the drawings, he looked over his shoulder to grin at Clara. "This is going to be it; I can feel it."

"…you mean you wrote a whole book in a day?" she asked, incredulous.

"No, but I did almost completely rewrite it. Do you remember what I wrote the last week we were in the house?"

"No… not that story about the cats you wrote to entertain Gwen and Ruby…" Clara gasped. John nodded in affirmation. "I thought that was ruined alongside the rest of the sitting room."

"Some of it was, but not all of it," he replied, motioning towards the charred pages at the end of the table. "I was thinking of maybe doing something with Timmy the Tiger, but Donny can't give the kind of feedback I got on this for a long time yet. If I can get this story to work just right, I could even sell it to a publisher in London."

"You really think so?"

"I _know_ so." He reached over the back of the couch and took Clara's hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss. "I'm not saying it will make me famous, but it will make us enough money to live off of so you don't have to work while I'm completing my next project."

"That's pretty ambitious," Clara smirked. She bent down and pushed back John's hair with her free hand, pressing their foreheads together. "If I don't have to teach, that just leaves housework, which we already share."

"It won't be stress-free, but it's pretty damned close compared to what you have done," John chuckled. They both laughed weakly at the prospect—the less stress there was on Clara, the better their chances were when it came to children. Kissing lightly, they both thought of the potential future John's book could bring them.

"How's about I whip up some dinner?" Clara asked sweetly.

"I'd love some," John replied. He scratched an itchy nose by rubbing it on the sleeve of his shirt as his wife walked away and disappeared into the kitchen.

This was going to be it—he _knew_ it. Now it was only a matter of time before things began to fall into place.

* * *

The fact that Clara came home to a different man each night was beginning to worry her.

Well, not _every_ night, but she honestly had no idea who was going to be there upon her return from work. One night John had been frustrated with the composition of a thumbnail, while another found him happily sketching along to his heart's content. Today, however, was exactly a week since he restarted his freelancing career and she found him face-down on the couch, cushion covering his head and the radio turned up obnoxiously loud. She turned the music off and crouched down beside her husband.

"What's the matter?" she asked. Only a muffled response came, which prompted her to shake her head and sigh. "John, I can't understand a word you're saying."

"I can't do it. It's been too long," he muttered, moving his head to the side so as to not speak directly into the furniture. "I never should have quit the yard—Dad was right—at least that was steady money."

"I thought your dad was never right about anything that has had to do with your career," Clara sighed. "What happened this time?"

John tugged at the cushion over his head and held it securely in place before answering. "I lost it; I can't write a decent story anymore."

"Nonsense," she said, yanking the cushion off from him. "You just haven't been at it for a while, and it's like trying to relearn how to ride a bicycle. It'll come back if it's not there already."

"It's not there and it won't come back—I've doomed you to support a useless husband."

Clara stood and folded her arms over her chest. Her husband was showing his overdramatic side again and she was going to have none of it. She looked at the pile of papers on the table that seemed like the most recent draft and sat down on his lower back. He let out a muffled groan and she began to read out loud.

" _'Once there were two little kittens. They were sisters, one a lovely brown and the other a brilliant red'_ …"

"No… don't read it…"

" _'One day, their mum told them they were going to visit their granddad and aunt in the country, but they would have to make the journey alone'_ …"

"Clara…" John whined. "Stop, _please_ …"

"Then keep at it until it's in proper shape for reading," she said, placing the draft on his shoulders before standing back up. "I don't care how long it takes. Just do it."

"It's going to take ages for it to be decent."

"Then it will take ages—I don't care." Clara bent down and kissed the back of his head, rubbing her nose in his fluffy hair. "Now stop your whining and let's go make dinner. It'll be a new day tomorrow and who knows? You might like your work again."

John only cursed into the couch as his reply. Rolling her eyes, his wife walked away to leave him to sulk. When he was certain she was gone, he rolled over onto his papers and stared at the crack in the ceiling.

' _This could take years, if I'm lucky_ ,' he groaned internally. ' _Clara really doesn't know about this process. She never went through months of no paychecks and the uncertainty of bringing a draft down for approval… and that doesn't even include the rewrites…_ '

A rumbling noise caught in his chest. ' _That's right, **rewrites**. I could have this thing done and ready to shop around and the only thing I could be met with is the insistence for rewrites. Mother help me…_ ' He creakily sat up and stretched out his arms over his head, only for Clara to walk past on her way from the bedroom to the kitchen and tap him lightly on the base of his skull.

"Come on, you big baby; one week and you're already a shoddy housewife considering dinner isn't even _started_ ," she joked. John stood and followed her into the kitchen, watching as she searched the cupboards for what to make.

"Are you sure you're fine with this?" he asked sheepishly from the doorway. She looked back at him over her shoulder, unamused and not bothered in the slightest.

"The only thing I know right now is that I'm hungry," she said. "Food first and _then_ we can talk about your crisis." Clara turned back to the cupboards to continue her rummaging. "I'm not quite sure what you did without me here to kick you along."

"Ate lots of things out of tins and laid in a rut for days before writing three lines," he replied. John opened up a tall cupboard and fetched a box of dried noodles from the very back, one that Clara could have never seen unless she went and stood on a chair. He went to hand it to her, but she backed away with her hands held high.

"He who stays home makes sure supper is on the table for those who go out," she said. She pulled his face down and gave him an encouraging peck on the lips. "I'll need to teach you how to do some proper shopping later, but for now it's noodles, okay?"

"Okay," he echoed. With a grab at his rear and a grin on her face, Clara left him in the kitchen to get started on dinner. John stared at the box in his hand and sighed sadly.

' _I'll have to do better than this_ ,' he resolved. ' _I need to get it right, and I need to get it right **soon**. Clara believes in me… and I guess that's one more person than I had before._ '

He put the box down and began to put some water in a saucepan for boiling. At least, if nothing, he was going to put a dinner on the table.


	43. Early October 1945

The setting sun was still warm as Clara made the walk from work to home. She refused to take the bus as long as she could stand it. As long as it wasn't rainy or cold she found it a pleasant walk, and much better than packing in with dozens of strangers, some of whom coming off of odd-timed shifts in pungent factories. The warmth and lack of unwanted commuters made her smile and enjoy the walk, coming up to the flat block just before it began to duck behind the buildings.

Scaling the steps up to her floor with ease, Clara began to fumble with her keys as soon as she saw the door to her flat. She almost was there when an old, familiar voice stopped her.

"Oh, Mrs. Smith! May I bother you for a moment?" She turned her head and saw Mrs. Mason, the elderly lady at the end of the hall, approaching her. The woman held out a scrap of paper, which Clara took. "Mr. Smith promised he would take care of a couple errands for me tomorrow, and that's the list of what I need. Can you please give that to him?"

"Of course," she replied, putting the list in her purse. "How'd he do with the kitchen pipe earlier? Still leaky?"

"No, no, he made sure it won't drip again within my lifetime," the old woman laughed. She then leaned in, lowering her voice in embarrassment. "I'd ask Mr. Thing since he _is_ a plumber, but I can't even pronounce his _name_ , let alone understand a word he says."

"We'll all get there eventually," Clara chuckled. "I'll be sure to get this to Mr. Smith. Have a good night."

"Thanks, dear. You too." With that, the elderly neighbor retreated to her flat and Clara entered her own.

"John? I'm home," she called out. As she took off her shoes, she saw her husband poke his head out of the kitchen.

"Good; I'm nearly done with dinner," he said before disappearing back behind the wall. Clara entered the kitchen to find John fussing over the stove with an apron tied around his waist, his shirt partially undone and the sleeves rolled up to combat the heat. She pecked him on the cheek before going into the cupboard for dishes to set the table.

"How was your day?" she asked while grabbing the plates.

"Not bad," he shrugged. "Fixed Mrs. Mason's sink and got a run-down of everything that needs repairs in her flat. It's almost as if this place isn't three years old."

"…which reminds me: I have a list from her concerning errands. She really does enjoy having her own personal handyman, doesn't she?"

"A little too much, I've gathered," he grumbled.

"Make a grab at your bum again, did she?"

"If that's my reward for being neighborly, then I'd rather move to Ben Nowhere and raise the kids without another soul as far as the eye can see. You're a teacher—it could work." Once Clara set two glasses of water on the table, he was done with dinner and began to serve it up—potatoes, asparagus, and a broiled pork roast that came out of the oven smelling heavenly.

"Oh my God, that smells _so good_ ," she sighed, watching him place the meat on a plate for serving. She leaned forwards so as to let the steam waft into her nose. "And to think I was expecting another helping of Spam tonight."

"I got it at a good price, so I thought why not," he replied, sitting down. John let Clara take her own cut of the roast before slicing off a piece for himself. "I tried the book thing, by the way."

"How'd that go?

"Awful—I _still_ get a load of questions from all the women in the queue. Even when I'm reading it doesn't seem to deter them and their stares."

"Well, you are a sight for sore eyes when it comes to the scenery," she laughed. She popped a bit of roast in her mouth and grinned at the taste. "My bet is that you've made plenty of trouble for some husbands when it comes to their willingness to go to the store."

"Maybe they should, and then I wouldn't be so novel," he said through his potatoes. Chewing his food, John made a twitchy sort of shrug as he changed topics. "I was able to get some sketching done after I got home, at least."

"Does this mean you're about ready to make the final drawings?" Clara asked.

"Nearly," he replied. "What about you? Anything exciting happen in the land of learning since yesterday?"

"A kid got sick all over the classroom across the way," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It's almost to the point to where the caretaker needs to chop down a tree from the yard just to make sawdust."

"The poor rascals," John tutted. "That is the part about being a child that was always the worst: getting all those illnesses out of the way."

Clara nodded silently in reply, her mouth too full for words to be polite. They sat eating wordlessly until she finally washed down her food with some water and cleared her throat. "So I got asked about you again today during lunch."

"Did you now?" he frowned. "Who was it this time?"

"Mr. Greene, _again_ ," she mumbled. She picked at her food for a moment before taking another drink of water. "I can't believe that it's been four whole months and they _still_ have a problem wrapping their heads around the idea that you were neither laid off nor quit in order to be a bone-idle slouch."

"A man starts to make steadier money than he ever has and people assume that he won't let the job go unless he finds something more suitable to jump into immediately," he said. "Remember that this is the crowd that was lecturing you about my dependability and worthiness before we even got married."

"I know, I know… it just doesn't feel _right_ , yeah? It's like they should have gotten over this five years ago."

"…because they _should_ have gotten over it five years ago… five and a half to be precise." John took another bite of roast and grunted. "They're just jealous because if their husbands stayed home not a thing would ever get done—or in Alistair's case, he'd have to call his daughter to come clean house and cook for him twice a week."

"He is pretty useless, isn't he?" Clara smirked. "You can almost set your watch to how often Miss Macintyre yells at him to clean out his office." John snorted into his water at that, the drink coming out his nose. "I hear he had a biscuit stash in there that's lasted him the entire war and some. How _awful_ do you think those are by now?"

"Pretty bad, and knowing Alistair Greene, it's true." He paused and watched his wife eat for a moment before sheepishly continuing. "You… you are still alright with this, aren't you Clara?"

"Alright with what? Living off my paycheck while being judged by coworkers and neighbors alike?" She saw him nod slightly in response. "I'm used to the judgment by now, and it's actually sort of nice to come home to dinner on the table and chores being done. It's delayed your book a bit, yeah, but I believe it's worth it considering I come home to the most handsome wife the River Clyde has ever seen."

"Ach, you're just saying that," John chuckled, nudging Clara's foot with his own. "If you have the most handsome wife, then I have the prettiest husband." He threw a grin at her across the table, waggling his eyebrows. She laughed and shook her head.

"How about you show me those sketches you did earlier once we clear the table?" she asked. "I love watching your process—everything always looks so different from start to finish."

"Sure thing," he said. With that, they finished dinner and helped one another wash the dishes. Once they were done and the radio tuned to some music, the couple settled down on the couch. Clara nestled into John's side while he took out a large pad of paper bought specifically for the book and flipped it open to a half-complete pencil sketch. It was of the two little kittens as they said good-bye to their grandparents (Clara had _insisted_ on that), with the granddad roughly started and the background only a vague suggestion of lines. Wrapping his left arm around his wife, the artist began to continue his work.

"…at least two," she eventually muttered, resting her head on his shoulder as she watched.

"Pardon?"

"I want at least two… or take in at least two, if that's what it comes down to. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"…yeah," he agreed. "A Gwen and Ruby of our own."

"…or a Glenn and Reuben." She thought for a second before adding, "We're not naming them 'Glenn' or 'Reuben'; that's a stairlift and one of those obnoxious American sandwiches."

"Well we're not having a 'John' as long as I still get a say. I don't hate my name, but it hasn't exactly prevented confusion in my lifetime." He erased an age line on the granddad cat's face before moving it slightly to the right. "Should ask your dad, see what he thinks."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Clara said. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smells of sweet pencil wood and their dinner still clinging to his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are reasons as to why Spam the Lunchmeat is generally regarded as being tired and overrated despite the fact it was considered a staple of many people's diet for decades. During wartime and postwar austerity rationing, meat was rationed but Spam was not. That, combined with relative cheapness, made it readily accessible and fairly ubiquitous, to the point people got turned off to the product based on overeating it alone (though, yes, it is definitely not a taste for everyone). Cube a tin of Spam, fry it with onions, then add macaroni, shredded cheese, and ketchup, and that is definitely a dish the Smiths ate while in the house on Wissforn and the flat. I've eaten it too, to the point I can't stomach it anymore. Yaaayyyy.
> 
> Another thing to note is that the shop queues were a thing based on the fact that self-serve grocery stores and supermarkets didn't take off in the UK until the 1950s, making it so that waiting in line for a clerk to be ready to help you (sometimes going out the door) was a common thing for British housewives (and post-war John) to have to deal with.


	44. February 1946

What woke John up that morning was not the alarm clock ringing off the side table and onto the floor, nor was it the way in which sunlight was filtering in through the bedroom window, nor the telephone in the kitchen ringing. Instead it was the way in which Clara was shivering in his arms despite the fact they were both covered in blanket and her skin was burning hot.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked, sliding down in the bed to look her in the eyes. She nodded in reply.

"I—I'm f-f-fine," she lied. "I think I need a couple extra minutes sleep…"

"No, what you need is a couple _hours_ ," John frowned. He placed a hand on her forehead, finding that it was just as hot and sweaty as the rest of her. "You stay here while I call the school and tell them you're not coming in today."

"…but John…!"

"You go in today and by tomorrow there will be a pint-sized epidemic in Clydebank. Don't worry; I'll take care of you."

Clara sighed in defeat, unable to gather the strength to argue further, and drew up the duvet over her head to hide sheepishly from her husband. Shaking his head in amusement, John climbed out of bed and dressed, putting on his trousers and shirt and jumper for the day. He then found his way into the kitchen and picked up the telephone receiver. Two women were chatting into it, which he listened to just long enough to identify them before clearing his throat.

"Miss Bush, Miss Jovanka, may I borrow the line for a moment?"

"Sure thing, Mister Smith. Just let us know when you're done," answered Jovanka. He heard the phone click and a dial tone appear. John then dialed a number, waiting for the ring.

Once, twice, thrice… "Hello?"

"Hello there, Aggie? It's John Smith, Clara's husband. She's fallen ill and can't come in."

"Are you sure?"

"She's got a fever and chills—I think going in today would be a disaster."

"Ooh, yeah, the poor dear. Call us tomorrow if she's still not better, will you?"

"Of course. Bye." John hung up the phone and grabbed the broom from the corner. After tapping the ceiling with the end a couple times, he heard the phone give off three short rings and one long one. The ringing stopped and he replaced the broom.

"Clara…?" he called out as he went through the sitting room into the loo. "You're all set, so there's nothing to worry about." He took the kerchief from his pocket and wet it under the tap, wringing it out thoroughly before bringing it with him to the bedroom. After unburying his wife from the duvet, he put the kerchief on her brow and kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm going out for a moment. You just stay put, okay?"

"Are you sure it's fine? What did Agatha say exactly?"

"That you should be here, resting." John smiled down at her in an attempt to be reassuring. "I'm just going to go find you some medicine. Don't worry."

"…but you need to do your work," Clara grumbled quietly, disappearing back behind the blanket. Her husband shook his head and sighed.

"Right now my job is taking care of you, alright?"

The mess of blanket muttered something and shifted slightly—it was as close to compliance as he was going to get. John exited the bedroom to go to the front door, pulling on his coat and slipping into his shoes as he headed out.

A few hours later he returned with a bundle of weedy-looking plants clutched in one hand. He immediately ducked into the kitchen and separated them on the table. He stripped some of the stems of their leaves or flowers, in some cases both, and tossed them in a small saucepan before putting a couple inches of water in it. After placing the pan on the stove to boil, he came to enough of a stop to remember to take off his coat, draping it hastily over a chair. He then took a tea towel and wet it under the tap, bringing it and one of the sprigs still covered in foliage with him back to the bedroom.

John exhaled a sigh of relief as he saw Clara remained curled up underneath the blanket, the wet kerchief sitting on the nightstand. She was sleeping, so he lightly shook her shoulder.

"Hey, time to get up for a little bit," he murmured softly. Her eyes slowly blinked open, her face expressionless.

"What did you get?" she asked hazily.

"I'm making you some tea right now," he replied before passing her the towel. "Here, put this on your forehead, since I doubt that fever broke yet."

"Okay." Clara accepted the towel and placed it on her brow, rolling over from her side to her back. John then slid the sprig underneath her pillow and kissed the top of her head.

"You'll be right as rain soon enough," he said, lingering by his wife as long as he could. Then he left to check on the saucepan—the water was boiling rapidly. John watched as some of the water boiled off, leaving only a thin bit of liquid left. He drained what he could into a mug and placed the pan back on the stove. Careful not to spill, he then brought it through the flat and to Clara's side.

"Here we are," John announced, taking the tea towel from her head and placing it on the nightstand. "Time for a nice and large helping of the family's patented cure-all. Whatever you've got, this will fix it."

"You sure…?" Clara asked. She sat up and took the mug from her husband, sniffing the contents cautiously. "Is this really tea? It sure doesn't smell like it."

"Herbal tea: my mam's recipe, passed down from her mam, who got it from hers. I swear by it."

"Good thing you were John instead of Joan then, hmm?" she laughed weakly. Clara peered into the murky mug contents, trying to identify the contents in her half-awake state.

"Go on—tuck in," he nodded. She took one sip and nearly dropped the mug in surprise, spitting out what had been in her mouth.

"Holy _fuck_ , what is this?!" she sputtered. Wide-eyed and arch-browed, John stared at her.

"It's Mam's cure-all. It brings down fevers and settles the stomach and…"

"John, what is _in_ this?"

"Oh, um…" he started before falling quiet. He counted on his fingers before listing the ingredients aloud. "Cloves, rosemary, garlic greens, peppermint greens…"

" _What_ …?" Clara narrowed her eyes and glared at her husband. "You just boiled our spice rack?"

"No, I found most of it growing about, probably where old gardens used to sit before the war," John defended. "I should have bought some ginger while I was getting the licorice root, but the shop was out."

"Are you a complete nutter?" She passed the mug back to John and folded her arms over her chest. "What was that supposed to do? Kill me with an outright attack of conflicting flavors?"

"When you've been sick before, you argued your health a lot longer than what you did earlier today," John explained. "I really couldn't risk it."

"…and you said you _found_ most of this? Just growing in lots?"

"Of course," he shrugged. "Where else would I find it?"

"Can we be one-hundred percent certain that your mum's gran wasn't some sort of elixir fraud?"

"Great-Granny Brown? Never." John gasped.

Clara huffed and rolled her eyes, slumping back down into the bed and pulling the duvet back over her. She put the wet tea towel on the nightstand and tried to get comfortable, jamming her hand underneath the pillow and finding the sprig John had put there before—more rosemary. She glanced over at him, his brow knit in worry, and sighed as she shoved it back under the pillow. John smiled slightly as he bent down and kissed Clara on the forehead.

"If you need anything at all, just ask."

"Some peace and quiet, please," she grumbled. He complied and left the room, closing the door behind him noiselessly. Clara pulled the rosemary back out from it hiding spot and examined it in the light coming in from the window. She brought the sprig down to her nose and smelled the fragrant needles before replacing it, sighing contently. Her husband may have had an increasingly insane and Victorian view on medicine, but at least he meant well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no freaking idea if what John does medicinally actually works. Knowing the bullshit that passed for medicine in the 1800's though (not even touching what people can buy into these days), and Her Wackiness that is Idris, it wouldn't surprise me that if it really did work and wasn't just some sort of fluke. Don't try it at home though—I bet it's nasty.
> 
> ...but yeah. Just imagine John as fluffy and unshaven wild man, who may or may not resemble a fae to the people catching just a quick glimpse of him, because John the Witch. Did they see the Faerie King? A herbalist? A hobo? They're not sure they want to find out.


	45. April 1946

Fitting the key into the lock, Clara entered her flat to find her residence suspiciously quiet. John was not sitting on the couch drawing, nor was he in the kitchen making dinner. Curious, she looked through the flat until she came to the bedroom, where her husband jumped out from behind the door and scooped her up into his arms.

"Oh! John!" she gasped, instinctively clinging to his neck. "What's this about?"

"I'm _done_ ," he grinned before kissing her. He slowly spun in place, making his way over to the bed where he sat down. "The book is finally done."

"It is?" Clara asked. "No more rewrites, no more scrapping illustrations and starting from scratch?"

"It's all over—I have my book." He flashed his teeth again before laying down, his wife coming with him and snuggling into his side. "I want us to go have dinner in Glasgow somewhere, to celebrate, and then tomorrow I can start calling publishers in London to get appointments with editors."

"Won't that take time though? Don't you need to send them a copy and…?"

"I usually have appointments to pitch my book; unless a book is more novel-length it's taken care of in an afternoon session. All I need to do is gather up some references and dust off my old suit."

"You sure you even fit into your old suit?" Clara chuckled. John looked at her, confused.

"What do you mean?" he wondered. She jabbed a finger in his stomach and giggled as he curled up in response.

"You've been getting a tummy since you stopped working at the yards," she smirked.

"Is… is that a bad thing?" he blushed.

Clara laughed at that. "I don't mind at all. It's the kind of thing you see on dads and blissfully married men."

"I haven't tried my suit on, but it should fit," John muttered, trying to shake it off. "I got it back when my paunch was more due to the sedentary lifestyle of the bachelor artist than anything. If it doesn't fit, I'd be surprised."

"Good," Clara smiled. She sat up and gave his stomach a quick pat. "Come on; if you still want to get into Glasgow before the restaurants are all packed, we have to head out soon."

"You got it boss," he replied. The couple then made their way out the door and towards the bus stop, ready to celebrate what was hopefully the beginning of a new chapter for them.

* * *

The bell rang and Clara's class immediately emptied, all the students rushing down to lunch. It was so far a peaceful day with little out of the ordinary happening. Reveling in the newfound quiet, the teacher made her way to the rosemary-scented office and found where she had stashed the sandwich and thermos of rosehip tea she brought with her that morning. She was halfway done with her lunch when she heard a familiar voice cut through the silence.

"Clara…?"

She looked up and saw that John was standing in the doorway to the classroom, dressed in his suit and setting bags down on the floor. Clara stood up as he put his hat on her classroom desk and walked over to her.

"What are you doing here, John?" she asked. He bent down to grab her face and kiss her lips, a lopsided grin on his face.

"I just got a callback on an interview," he explained, rubbing his thumbs along her cheekbones. "I have to be on a train to London tonight in order to make it, and I had to see you before I left."

"Oh my gosh, that's _great_!" she exclaimed happily, jumping up and throwing her arms around his neck before kissing him again.

"Don't get too excited, because it's just an interview," John said. "This could be the only one or it could be the first of many—we don't know yet."

"The thing is that someone wants to read your book," Clara reasoned, tracing her fingertips over his hair. It had been slicked down in an attempt to make his unruly greying hair somewhat presentable and running her fingers _through_ it would have not necessarily been a good thing to do. "As long as you can get your foot in the door _somewhere_ means that you can get in with an editor eventually."

"Hopefully I'll have some sort of answer for you by the time I return," he grinned. "How about a little something to take along with me? To get me through the long and boring nights?"

"Alright, if you insist," she replied, the corners of her mouth twisting up. She pulled him down by the back of his head, kissing him in a slow, deliberate manner. He pulled her in closer, making her moan quietly into his mouth. They got lost in the moment, only snapping towards reality when a tiny, disgusted voice brought them crashing back.

"Ew… why you gotta do that here, Mrs. Smith?" a little boy scowled as he ran over to his desk. He procured a copy of the Beano and scuttled out of the room again, making the adults chuckle.

"Well, I better get going then," John sighed. "I'll call when I get there."

"Don't bother—who knows when you'll get in, and I'd rather just wait on bated breath," Clara laughed. She gave her husband's rear end one final squeeze as he reached for his hat. "You know where to find me."

"That I do," he smirked. One last kiss on her brow and he was off, leaving his wife supremely satisfied that she was going home to an empty flat and having to cook her own dinner for the first time in months.

* * *

It was a quiet evening as Clara sat alone in the flat, listening to the news on the radio while darning some socks. Accidentally pricking her thumb, she muttered under her breath and brought her legs up so that she could slouch into the couch. She was so intent on concentrating that she did not hear either the key in the front lock or the door open. John quietly set his bags down on the floor and locked up behind him, not drawing any attention to himself until he cleared his throat.

"Honey, I'm home," he laughed, causing Clara to jump. She snapped her head in the direction of the door and breathed a sigh of relief as she identified the intruder. After putting down the darning, she laughed in exasperation as she stood to meet her husband halfway across the sitting room.

"No more radio dramas for you, you big idiot," she chuckled. She reached up and pulled his face down for a kiss. "So? What's the big news? Do they need to think about it, or…?"

"No sale," John said, shaking his head. "It didn't fit with the direction they want to go with their post-war offerings."

"Nonsense," Clara frowned. "It's _perfect_ for what they want… they just don't know it yet."

"Don't get discouraged—it took me more than a couple tries at wooing an editor before I got my old contract." He held his wife with one hand as he brushed his fingertips along her face with the other, his touch nearly a whisper in of itself. "Few get noticed in their first interview and even fewer yet get a multibook contract on that first try. The wait will be worth it."

"It better not be a very long wait," she teased. Clara rested her hands on his chest and glanced up at him. "If I keep on having to lose you to London for days at a time, I'm going to start to feel neglected."

"Oh, we can't have that, now can we?" he chuckled. He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose. "How about we go work on that right now? I don't know if that kiss lasted me as long as I'd hoped."

Instead of getting a verbal reply, John got his wife's hands reaching inside his suit jacket and trailing up his back. He took this as the go-ahead to pick her up and head to the bedroom, ready to atone for the few lonely nights she had spent without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just think John, who by now has fully greyed, in a nice suit and a hat (because having a nice hat was just about a requirement back then). Basically, it's his Randall Brown phase we're in, and I'm loving it.
> 
> Another note: The Beano, a children's comic magazine, started its run in 1938 as a weekly publication. During WWII it became biweekly, as there was paper and ink shortages/rationing, and weekly printing did not resume until 1949. It has over 3700 issues to-date, so good luck trying to play catch-up.


	46. July 1946

Bouncing his leg as he sat in the phone booth, John waited impatiently for the call to be picked up. Each dull, dead dialtone that passed made his stomach twist a bit tighter until the receiver on the other end, hundreds of miles away, was answered.

" _Hello, Smith Residence_."

"Clara? Hey, how are you?" He smiled at the telephone as the voice of beauty and grace incarnate gasped happily.

" _John! I didn't expect a call from you! Tell me it's good news!_ "

"I don't know what it is, other than that I can't get on the train tonight as planned," he explained. The silence that permeated the call gave him a clear understanding of how his wife took the news. "I'll tell you more once I get home—won't be for another couple of days at the least."

" _…are you okay? Are you in trouble?_ "

He leaned forward, resting his arm on the booth wall. "I'm fine, but I didn't want you to worry when I'm not on the platform tomorrow. It's good to hear your voice."

" _It's good to hear yours too_."

"See you in a few more days, alright? I miss you."

" _I miss you too. Bye_."

"Bye." The other end clicked and a dialtone reappeared. Exhaling heavily, John hung up the receiver and left the booth, finding himself once again in a crowded lobby. He wove between the people milling about and made his way up the stairs, three floors up and just down the corridor, to the offices of Kensington, Gordon, and Brown Publishing. After a nod to the receptionist at the front desk, he navigated the office until he found the door to the editor in charge of his interview and sat in the chair next to it, taking off his hat and placing it on his knee. He counted the minutes nervously, wondering about the meaning behind the prolonged wait. Every time he had to wait around extra so far had been unfavorable news, which made the length of some interview sessions near unbearable.

Nearly half an hour had passed and the door finally opened. It was the editor's personal secretary, young and fashionable, who smirked as he scrambled to his feet.

"Mr. Brown will see you now, Mr. Smith," she said. The secretary left open the outer door and allowed John to make his own way in. She picked up a scrap of memo paper from her desk and opened the door to Mr. Brown's office—the inner sanctum. Samuel Brown was, the best John could tell, right on the cusp of middle age and most likely the youngest of the company partners. Photos of children sat on the table along one wall, while the other two were filled with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The entire wall behind the editor's desk was glass, providing an intimidating view of the London skyline behind him. John watched the secretary place the memo on top of some papers and made a passing touch of her boss's shoulder, which was reciprocated with a hungry glance. She then left, shutting the door behind her.

"Please, sit down," Mr. Brown insisted. John complied and took one of the armchairs placed in front of the desk. He could see his portfolio contents spread over the lacquered walnut surface, some with hastily-scribbled notes clipped on the edges. "Were you able to get a decent lunch?"

"I managed," John lied. In all reality he was too nervous to eat more than a few chips from a street vendor. "Were you able to get a hold of your partners?"

"As a matter of fact, I was," the editor replied. He folded his hands and leaned into his desk. "They were more than a bit surprised that I came to them with someone new; we haven't hired a children's author since I became a senior editor in '35."

"I know kids' books are not what you're known for, but it's not foreign territory for the company either," John admitted. Mr. Brown chuckled at that.

"That's true, but we're getting ready to expand our offerings once we start getting our hands on decent amounts of paper and ink again," he said. "Misters Gordon and Kensington agree with me that we're willing to start searching for new talent now, and that locking them in is essential." He studied John's face as he continued, watching his reactions. "We have two main terms that we want met: one, being that you sign an exclusivity contract, and the second being that you are published under a pseudonym, because… well… we want to keep you a bit more unique to match your talents."

John breathed a sigh of relief, a heavy weight lifting off his chest. "Wow… thank you," he grinned. "I'd like to read the contract through before I agree to anything for certain, but chances are I'll sign it if it gives me a job."

"Good; I'll get Elizabeth to put together your contract and tomorrow we can get started."

"Get started on what…?"

"A test-run of your book, of course—it's why I told you to make arrangements to stay through the week," Mr. Brown said. "We'll need to come up with your pseudonym and a dedication, if you want one, in the meantime. I don't have any more appointments today, so we can take all afternoon."

"Actually, I know what I want it to say," John nodded, a corner of his mouth twisting up. "Just give me a pad and pencil."

"Splendid— _Elizabeth_? Come here please. I do believe we have our first postwar writer-hire on our hands."

* * *

Clutching the straps of his overnight bag and art portfolio tightly, John stepped off the bus and began the remaining walk to the flat block. He took his time as he meandered along, taking in the sight of the neighborhood in the late afternoon. Despite the fact that the flat block itself was bustling and lively with typical midsummer activity, he found that his own unit was very quiet and his wife nowhere in sight. After not finding Clara in either the sitting room or the bedroom, there was only one last place he could look. Entering the kitchen, he was tackled from above by his tiny wife jumping off a chair and latching on to his upper body. John stumbled backwards slightly and yelped, fumbling to catch Clara and hold her upright.

"Miss me more than you thought you would?" he laughed. She pecked him on the lips and let out a playful snarl.

"Next time you turn a couple-day trip into a week like that again I am coming down to join you whether you like it or not," she purred lowly. "It's been awful around here by myself."

"Well then, I think I have the prefect present for you," he smirked. She kissed him again, messing with his hair in the process, before hopping off her husband and sitting at the table. John put his things down on the floor and rummaged through the overnight bag, taking out a thin square package wrapped in brown paper. "Here you go."

"What is it?"

"The reason I had to make it a week away. Open it."

Clara waited before he was sitting as well until she opened the package. Inside was a copy of _Kittens Come Home_ , with a hardback cover that shone from a glossy finish.

"You got the contract?!" she gasped, elated. She looked across the table at her husband, whose lopsided grin was ear-to-ear. "I can't believe it… you got the contract!"

"They like my work so much that when I read the contract, I didn't see an end date," he said. "There's a date set as the earliest I can renegotiate or opt out, but nothing in it about it needing to be fully renewed. I think I can stay there until I retire… and even then I'll still be getting royalties for as long as my books sell."

"Wow, John, that's great," Clara replied. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked back down at the book cover, with the two striped kittens frolicking on a hill. She blinked to clear her eyes and furrowed her brow at the name at the bottom. "The Doctor…?"

"Mr. Brown wanted me to use a pen name, one that sounds trustworthy enough to be universal but not as common as my real name. It was the first thing that popped into my head."

"You didn't even go to graduate school, let alone get a _doctorate_ ," she sighed. Clara allowed herself a chuckle as she flipped through the book, seeing the familiar illustrations much smaller than she was used to. Pausing at the front page, she read the curt dedication. "' _For Ruby and Gwen, who can always come home—for Victoria, who nearly did_.' Oh…" She brought her hand up to her mouth and the tears started anew. The sisters' names were expected, but their daughter's was not. Clara put the book down on the table and hid her face in her hands as she cried. John walked around the table and knelt down next to her, smoothing out her hair in an attempt to comfort her.

"There now, none of that," he shushed. She slid out of her chair and crashed into his lap, forcing him to sit on the floor of their tiny kitchen. He held her close as she continued to cry. "I think the next one will be for you, or maybe Donny, how about it?"

"You didn't tell me you were going to do that," Clara croaked. She clutched at his shirt, between his heart and suit jacket. "Did they ask who she was?"

"No. Mr. Brown isn't the question-asking type when it comes to dedications, it seems," he replied. "I know we try not to talk too much about her, but that doesn't mean either of us would deny she existed."

"I wouldn't, not ever," she said, resting the side of her head on John's chest. "That doesn't change the fact that was… very _unexpected_."

"I'm sorry, but it was an in-the-moment decision. That's only a test copy I brought home… I can change it, if you want…"

"Keep it," she insisted with a sniffle. "Just know that you're the one explaining her to my dad _and_ any future siblings she might have."

"Fair enough." He pressed the tip of his nose to her hair and held her tight. "It's going to be a new start for us—the start we deserved from the beginning."

"How long do you think until we can make the move down to London?" Clara asked. She breathed in deeply, reveling in her husband's scent. "You can't expect me to let you go for a week at a time when you need to talk to your editor."

"Honestly, I was looking at houses while I was waiting on the test prints," he admitted. She leaned back and looked up at him, flabbergasted while demanding an explanation. "Well, I got a signing bonus and an advance. If you figure that, plus what we have leftover in the savings, then we've got a tidy sum at our disposal, and…" John was cut off as his wife's mouth crashed into his and he suddenly found himself flat against the kitchen floor.

"I'll go down to the school and put my notice in tomorrow," she whispered. Tears fell from her eyes onto his face, yet her heart was leaping for joy. "You take care of the house and I'll take care of everything here and follow you once it's all done, yeah?"

"That'll take a bit, but it sounds to me like a plan." He snuggled Clara as he pressed their foreheads together, glad they were in one another's arms again.


	47. Early September 1946

Clara fiddled nervously with her handbag as the train pulled into the station. She looked out the car window and tried to find her husband amongst those there to greet travelers upon their arrival—no luck. Once the train was fully stopped she grabbed her suitcase from the chair next to her and made her way out the car and down onto the platform. Everything was so crowded that she couldn't help but be bumped and jostled as she walked around in search for John.

"Clara! Clara, there you are!" shouted a familiar Scottish brogue, filtering through the various voices buzzing about. She turned and saw John weaving his way between the crowd in order to reach her. She edged around here and there and met him halfway, putting down her suitcase to jump into both his arms and an affirming kiss.

"Oh, I missed you," she sighed happily as they parted. John simply chuckled.

"It was torture," he replied, placing her back down on the platform floor. He leaned down into another quick kiss before grabbing her bag and offering an arm for while they walked. It was clear that he had not lied completely, given his week-old beard and disheveled hair. "So, did you have a good ride in?"

"I think I understand now why Dad's so good at complaining about the railways," Clara groaned. "The last major train ride I took was to get _to_ Glasgow, and that was in a newer coach that didn't get shunted off the main line every twenty miles."

"Ah, I see," John nodded. He bit his tongue, withholding commentary and comparisons to her father for later. They walked out the station and towards the car park, where he led her towards a dented-up vehicle. It was blue in color and appeared to have been left to permanently rust.

" _This_ is the car you bought?" Clara asked, her brow knitting in trepidation. "You made it sound like you found the perfect car the way you were talking about it on the phone the other day." John placed her suitcase in the boot and smiled widely.

"Yeah, of course," he replied. "I got it for barely anything at all; this is a vehicle we can put through its paces and not have to worry about a thing." He went to the passenger door and opened it, eagerly awaiting his wife to follow along. Only halfway amused, she shook her head and sat down on the bench seat. John closed the door and went around to his side to get in and start the metal beast with a turn of the key and a whining grind.

"Oh, this thing sounds _dreadful_ ," Clara grimaced as John pulled out of the car park. He simply shrugged, far from bothered.

"It's not the bus, or the Tube, and once they pull petrol off rations we'll be able to go wherever we want with it." He shrugged as he made a turn a little too wide for Clara's comfort.

"They just put _bread_ on ration; I highly doubt we'll be taking holidays to Glasgow in this any time soon."

"Hey, you never know. Are you paying attention to where we're going? I don't want you getting lost your first week back."

"Uh-huh, sure." Clara side-eyed John as he navigated the streets, bringing them past boroughs and through neighborhoods, until finally he pulled between two rows of houses that looked newer than any building she had ever seen in London proper. "Did you take us outside city limits somehow? There's no way we've left."

"We're still in London; Grynden Street was totally leveled, just like Wissforn was," John explained. He pulled up into the drive of a two-storied house with a brilliantly-blue door, shifting the gearbox into park. "Well, we're here."

"…and did you pick the house to match the car or the car to match the house?" she deadpanned. He blinked, looking from the door to the hood of the car and back.

"Oh, I never noticed," he shrugged. "Blue car, blue door; no one will have trouble spotting which house is ours."

"Then let's not dawdle," Clara said. She got out of the car and stood on the porch as John retrieved her bag from the boot. He almost ran, his strides bouncing and long, as he bounded up to the door to unlock it. Bowing slightly, he held it open.

"Ladies first."

Folding her arms across her chest, Clara stood silently and tapped her foot. John blinked at her, confused.

"What…?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong," she groaned. "This is supposed to be our _home_ , isn't it…?"

"Yeah, and…?" It took him a moment, but a spark lit in his eyes as he grinned in realization. "Oh. So that's how you want to go about it…" He tossed the suitcase into the house and turned back around to scoop his wife up into his arms, one holding firmly along her waist and the other keeping the hem of her skirt pressed to the backs of her knees. Clara draped her arms around his neck and kissed John as he carried her into the house and kicked the door shut behind them.

"Now that's more like it," she chuckled before kissing him again, a soft peck of the lips. "Are you going to put me down now or are you going to carry me around on the grand tour?"

"That sounds like an idea," he replied, flashing his teeth. He took her through the first level of the house—the dining room, the kitchen, the sitting room, the _formal_ sitting room—all while pretending the couple crates and boxes leftover from shipping their personal belongings were grand pieces of furniture. Putting her back down in the front hall, John took Clara's hand and led her up the stairs.

"I only really bothered with our room and my studio," he said over his shoulder. "Something told me it was best to wait for you to start discussing what to do with the other two rooms."

"We have _four_ bedrooms?" she marveled.

"Three… and my studio," he insisted. "I didn't know if you wanted to make one a guest room for now or both of our spare rooms a guest room, or what you preferred. Having your dad over would be nice, but we should probably figure out which room we're going to place him in first." He took his wife into the one room and allowed her to revel in the amount of empty space it had. "What do you think?"

"Which are the other rooms?" she asked, her voice echoing slightly.

"Our room is the one to the back and west, the studio is to the back and east," John said. "Both the spare rooms are to the front."

"So I'm facing south?" Clara asked, looking out the window down to the street below.

"Yup—we're in the southeast corner of the house."

"Then this room can be the guest room, and the other we'll just put curtains in for the time being," she decided. She walked out of the one spare bedroom and into the other and spun around in the center to take a quick look. "Yes, I think that's what we're going to do. What do you think?"

"Whatever you say, boss," John replied, leaning on the doorjamb. "Anything else you wish to see right off the bat?"

"Hmm… I'm not sure if I trust that you picked up the correct linens for our bed," Clara snickered. She sauntered up to him and trailed a finger up his chest and playfully flicked his nose. "I think you should go show me, prove me wrong."

"Maybe we can give it a test-run, see if they are to your standard," he winked. He picked up Clara once again and carried her down the hall to their bedroom. Setting her on the floor, he bent down to kiss her and start christening their new house when she slipped out of his grasp and flopped onto the bed, curling up underneath the blanket.

"Oh, a nap is going to be so good after such a long train ride," she sighed happily, snuggling into the pillows. John chuckled and crawled in on the other side, wrapping his arms around her middle.

"Are the linens to your liking?" he murmured, leaving a light kiss behind her ear.

"So far? Yeah. They're perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the war, petrol/gasoline was the very first thing to be rationed, and afterwards was a commodity that spent lots of time being in flux as to whether civilians could have access to it or not. Bread, however, was only ever put on rations after WWII, when the wheat crops in Britain was ruined by too much rain. It was a hugely unpopular decision, especially since it was grey and couldn't be sold the day it was baked so that you could slice it thinner and weren't tempted to eat lots of it at once. It was… weird, to say the least.


	48. November 1946

Cleaning Day, in Clara Smith's opinion, was the eleventh worst day for the condition of human tedium.

Admittedly sometimes cleaning was therapeutic in times of stress and ire, which would have otherwise rocketed the day up to spot three or four, but today it was not. John was out for the afternoon, presenting a rough draft to his editor, which left the house dead quiet. It was up to Clara to find a way to pass the time without going mental and have it not involve having a small chat with her husband every so often or listening to him fight with his radio. She knew that the decision to stay home was made of her own volition, but it was days like today that made her feel as if she was mad for even considering it.

Eventually she found her way into John's studio. She sniffed at the air—there were the usual scents of must and earth from his materials, but there was also a sort of sour haze that hung in the room that made her nose crinkle. She walked over to the window and opened the top pane slightly, letting in a small bit of the wind from outside. Satisfied, she spun around and went to go back to her work.

**_THNK_ **

Clara looked back and saw that her elbow had accidentally grazed a stack of sketchbooks and a small cardboard box that had been sitting on the table that housed John's paints. She cringed, hoping that there hadn't been anything too messy in the box, and bent down to pick it up. Nothing looked like it was oozing out, so at least it was not inks or paints. Turning the box over to see the top, her eyes widened a slight bit.

It was a shoe box, old and worn, with the stamp of a Renfrew cobbler on it. She opened the box cautiously and saw that there were no art supplies, but instead, papers and trinkets and photographs that were crinkled and charred.

Things from Clydebank. Things from their first house.

Clara shuddered as she took a deep breath to steady herself. Not many of the things from their old house in Clydebank had survived, and most of what had was generally sturdier than paper. She knew John had picked through much of the rubble of his family's home but was unsure as to why she did not know this box existed until now. After replacing the lid, she carried the box downstairs to the kitchen, where she made some tea and nibbled on a few berries from the freezer before returning to the contents. The last thing she needed was to be thrown into another panic when John was not home and she was going to take this slowly.

As Clara began to go through the box, she occasionally had to stop herself and breathe as the contents yielded things she had never thought she'd see again. On the very top were some bits and bobs of John's old books, charred remnants missing half their pages and all their use. One of them was almost complete, and Clara only knew that because she had read the book dozens of times to her London schoolchildren. She wondered for a moment what it would take to get the old publishing house in Glasgow to send her some new copies before she shook her head and continued on—if they could have done so, John would have them by now.

Further down was an austere photograph she had seen only once or twice before: John's parents. His mother, thin and drawn, stood with a mischievous twinkle in her eye as his father sat wearing all the long, hard years on the shipyard floors. As lined and heavy as John's father's face was, Clara could tell his eyes shone like a young man's. She had always thought they would have been great to have tea with, to let them know their son would do alright for himself in the end and make them proud no matter what, but they had both passed away when Clara was a child. She set the photograph aside—she'd need to find a frame for it later.

She kept on digging through the box, uncovering more things here and there. There were a few more photographs, even some with her she recognized as having been taken before their marriage, as well as a couple trinkets. A broken old pocketwatch, a mangled toy soldier, a pen light that glowed a soft green… everything in the box made her smile, at least a little.

That is, until she got to the bottom of the box and found a soft envelope made of yellowed paper. She carefully looked inside it and saw there were more photographs inside. Clara gingerly took them out and began to shuffle through them—she hadn't seen any of these before. The top ones were mostly of a child, heavy-lidded and miserable-looking. One or two had the boy along with the face she knew belonged to John's Uncle Jaime—another person she'd never meet—and some had the boy alongside a girl a good six or seven years older than him, a neighbor perhaps, or maybe a long-gone cousin from the looks of her, though suddenly she was met with a wrinkled, frayed portrait of a familiar-looking young man in a soldier's uniform.

These were all photographs of John.

Clara flipped through the rest of the photos, carefully looking at each one. They were all of him for certain; as she could see it in his eyes and the way his face was shaped and how his hair fluffed out when longer. He was close to her age in a couple, where he was with his artist friends and looking much happier than he did as a child. There was something boyish and playful about his face; he clearly took after his mother in that regard. She studied his lithe frame and more youthful features, allowing her expression to slip from intrigue back to a content smile.

As awkward as John claimed to have been as a young man, she now had photographic evidence he was anything but the unattractive misfit he claimed. She held one of the photos up at arms' length—if she tried she could almost imagine his younger self sitting there in the kitchen with her, laughing gaily at some joke she had just told. She looked at the date on the back of the photograph: _1923_. Part of her wanted to regret that she had been four years old then, that she missed out on so much time at his side, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. His age had protected him from a second round of service, keeping him at her side their entire marriage. Even if she had been born when he was, there would have been no way for them to have met, and they still would have had their first encounter in the Clydebank pub, with her as the old maid common to his generation. Worse yet, she could have been _married_ already. No… things were fine as they were.

"I'm back!" John called from the front door. Clara jumped in surprise—she hadn't even heard him come in. She put down the photo in her hand and poked her head out into the hall. There he was, wind-blown and disheveled, sighing as he eased the bag with his art portfolio off his shoulder. She rushed to him, jumping up and crashing into his upper body. Taken by surprise, he fell backwards into the door and juggled the tasks of staying upright and holding his wife aloft with considerable unease.

Slowly, John slid down the door and landed on the floor. He smiled into his wife's kiss as she forced his coat off of him. His scarf was off and his hair even more of a mess before he gently pulled her away; John may have gotten the chance to breathe but his wife smoothly made the transition down to his neck as she began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Not that I'm complaining, but don't you think we'd be a bit more comfortable upstairs?" he chuckled. Clara stopped and grinned at him. She scrambled to get up and pulled John along. He barely had enough time to slip out of his shoes before he was up the stairs and falling backwards on their bed as Clara clung to him tightly. John slowly slid the zipper of her dress down and ran his fingers along her exposed spine. She paused her littering of kisses across his chest and throat to inhale sharply and arch her back; she was ready, as was he.

Later on, as the sunlight began to pour directly into the window and wash the room in a golden glow, John pulled the blanket down and wrapped it around his and Clara's naked forms. They were still lying on the bed sideways—they hadn't thought further than kissing and moaning and groping would allow—with his legs dangling over the side and her curled up on top of him. He rolled as he pulled the blanket, careful not to crush her as he eventually landed to her side. She snuggled closer into his chest, feeling well protected in her cocoon of limbs and blanket.

"Mmmm…" she murmured hazily. "They're going to be gorgeous, John."

He blinked before moving a fold of fabric in order to look at her. "What…?"

"Our children, when we have them," Clara sighed. He chuckled to himself and shook his head.

"Only if they take after their mam," John grinned. His wife untucked herself from his embrace and slid up in order to look him eye-to-eye.

"I found an old box when I opened the window in your studio for fresh air," she said. "How come you never told me you found those photos?"

"You found _that_ box?" he marveled. "It was supposed to be a surprise, but I forgot where I put it in the move."

"It was underneath some sketchbooks. Some of those photos were like looking at an unfinished whisky, just laid down to ripen with age."

"I thought you hated whisky."

"…okay, but that's not the point. My point is that one day we're going to have some of the best-looking children this world has ever seen and I can't _wait_ to show off like a smug mum ought to and at least part of it will be your fault."

"Does… does this mean you're ready to start trying again?" John asked, his eyebrows raising excitedly. Clara touched their foreheads and nodded, which made him exhale happily. "Really? You mean that? I'm not dreaming?"

"No, you're not dreaming," she giggled. "Just do me a favor and make sure you pass on your height. I can tell you from first-hand experience it's no fun being short."

John chuckled at that and shifted so that he gently eased his wife onto her back and began to sample the skin along her neck and across her chest. He smiled into her shoulder; there were, of course, worse ways to spend an afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that John's parents are this AU's War Doctor and Idris, because cutes.


	49. December 1946

An itchy sensation along the curve of her neck woke Clara up one cold, pale morning. She wiggled within her husband's grasp, which only made his grip around her waist tighten.

"Shave," she grumbled.

"Hmmmrmmm," was all that John could manage as a reply. His nose found its way to the curve of her shoulder and his chest rumbled as he settled back in. His days-old beard still brushed against his wife's skin, making her toes curl.

Not taking unintelligible noises as legitimate answers, Clara grabbed hold of their blanket and drew it over her head, cutting off John's access to her from the shoulders up. He tried to nuzzle his way past the fabric, but she pulled the blanket tighter in protest.

"Clara… what's wrong…?" he murmured.

"You've skipped shaving for too long," she answered. "I don't care if you come back to bed or stay out, but go cut all that off or no more cuddling."

"It's a thing I'm trying, dearest, just to see if I like it," he defended. "It's cold outside, so now's the perfect time. I thought you said beards looked alright."

"That doesn't mean they _feel_ alright." Clara curled up in a ball as John let go and rolled over to lay down facing away from her. "And it's not like you're going to keep it long enough to wear it into the office."

"I've got a contract, not a punch-card; as long as I don't smell bad and look like a tramp, I'm perfectly safe unless they want some sort of legal trouble from their prized children's author. People trust men with a full beard—as long as I don't make it a goatee or overtly-fancy moustache no one will bother me."

"Yeah, but their wives are the ones who must suffer in the long-run," she muttered. She poked her nose out of the blanket to breathe properly. "Want to know who else has a beard? My dad. Want to know when he grew it? After mum died. Beards look nice but they're scratchy and full of sorrow."

"Come on, Clara," he said, rolling back over again. "You just don't like it because it's coarse right now. It won't be that way forever; you're not even _trying_."

"Maybe I don't _want_ to try it."

"You're being silly," he groaned. John tried to wrap his arms back around the blanket bundle, but gave up when it squirmed too much to be worth the effort. "Fine; I'll make breakfast."

"Make it after you shave," Clara demanded. Her husband instead rolled his eyes as he got out of bed and stretched the sleep from his limbs. She would come around, he knew she would, and it was simply a matter of waiting it out.

* * *

Later on that day, John was jolted awake by the sound of a resounding crash. He sat up straight and looked around, finding that it was nothing but the symphony on the radio switching programs from gentle classical to lively jazz. Looking at his watch, he found that it was already teatime, despite the fact it felt as if he had just sat down again from lunch. He ran his hands over his face and groaned—it was just one of _those_ days, he could feel it. John stood up and shuffled out of the room, leaving the radio on and taking his time in order to wake up before confronting his wife. She was sour at him for not having shaved off his beard that morning and was still in full-teasing mode concerning it.

"Post come?" he asked as he descended the stairs. Clara, who was standing by the front door, nodded and handed him a couple envelopes for him to flip through. " _Still_ nothing from Gwen and Ruby? I thought you gave them, the agency, _and_ the school our new address."

"We're just lost in the shuffle—it happens," she said. "They did have a mum and brother to go home to, after all." She made her way back into the sitting room and returned to the couch, picking her book up from the coffee table. "I saw there was something in there from Derek. What does he have to say?"

"Hold on, I'm getting through that," John chuckled as he followed her into the room. He placed the other envelopes down on the table and snatched the letter-opener from atop the mantle. With the paper cut, he took out the letter and began to read through it. "Well, would you look at that; he's a granddad."

"Granddad? Derek? That's exciting news!" Clara grinned. "So, what's the baby's name? Did he put down weight and length too, or is that coming in an official card?"

"No, he just says he's a granddad," he replied, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Why would he put down how _long_ the kid is?"

"Because that's basic information you share about babies when they're born," she insisted dryly, pretending to go back to her book. "I thought you knew that."

"Babe and mother are doing fine, and that's all I ever ask. The important information all comes out eventually. Did your mam teach you to pry?"

" _No_ , but she _did_ teach me how to ask the correct questions. You're just like my dad, you know that?"

Now that made John's face morph into a scowl. "Come on Clara, that's a low blow and you know it."

"What? Being able to tell that both my middle-aged men are idiots when it comes to birth announcements?"

"Comparing your husband to your father twice in one day is not very fair," he said, picking up the other envelopes again and beginning to walk out of the room. "You know what? I think I _will_ keep the beard, since apparently we _are_ the same and all."

"Oh that's just _rude_ ," Clara argued as her husband vanished from the room. "I did _not_ marry my father."

"No, but you did marry older than him, so it serves you right," John snarked, his voice filtering in from the kitchen.

"Serves _me_ right? You're the one who brought a twenty-year-old to your house on the first date," she reminded him. He poked in head back in the doorway from the hall, wagging a finger in her direction.

"Hey, all I knew was that you were _young_ , but _mature_ , and it was the _second date_ , need I remind you… not to mention the fact you could have turned down the offer."

"…and where would we be then?"

"Best not go there, darling," John warned gently. "Let's just say I've thought of it, and this is definitely preferable, and we'll leave it at that." He disappeared and Clara could hear him make his way back towards the kitchen.

"Old man beard and all?"

"Yes; definitely."

* * *

The whole next week was the closest thing the Smith Household had ever seen to a marital spat since the first year of their marriage. Clara spent the entire time dodging kisses and cracking wise about John's facial hair, while he slept facing away from her and made jokes right back. All it meant, mostly, was that Clara was the one doing the cuddling at night, but eventually the comments about the beard became progressively sharper until it seemed like there was barely any conversation at all. They grew grouchy towards one another and eventually the most meaningful discussions they had involved what they would have for dinner that night.

Until one day, the eighth day into the tiff to be exact, Clara went down to the basement to take care of some laundry, only to find her husband occupying the same space. He was over on the opposite side of the room, sporting just his trousers, braces, and vest as he lifted weights. The weight bench and corresponding equipment had been his early Christmas present, having claimed his return to literary form had made him lazy and he needed to get back into shape if he was going to be of any use to his children once they were born. Clara tried to ignore him as she took the clothes from the washing machine and put them in the basket. The metallic clinking of his weight set filled the silence between them, following her while she crossed the basement towards the clothes lines they had installed for the winter months. She was about halfway through hanging the clothes to dry when she heard the telltale clank of the barbell as John set it down in its perch.

"Hey Clara, can you please spot me while I use some more weight?" he asked while he rolled off the bench and grabbed at some smaller blocks to place on the ends of the barbell.

"I don't spot you normally," she said, continuing to hang up laundry.

"I don't normally have this much I'm bench pressing," he replied. "Please?"

She paused and gave her husband an unimpressed look before placing his shirt back in the basket and walking across the basement, adding, "You're strength-training, not preparing for the London Olympics."

"Chasing toddlers _is_ an Olympic sport, from what I've heard," he quipped as she sat down on the chair next to the bench. He finished clamping the extra weight into place and laid back down on the bench, sliding into position. "What do you think? Will the IOC accept that? Short notice, but it's a year and a half out. I'm sure they can make an adjustment somewhere." He then began his reps, five at a time before resting and starting up again.

"Well, you _are_ older than the Modern Games; they might take your recommendation based on that alone," Clara deadpanned. She chuckled in satisfaction as she watched a glower cross John's face.

"Ha-ha, very funny," he frowned. Placing the barbell back in its spot, he stopped his repetitions and glanced upwards at his wife. "At least I have the foresight to think about this sort of stuff."

"I can't deny that," she replied. Clara looked at John's arms and upper body, taking note of the tone of his muscles. It was clear that he had been treating his training regimen with utmost seriousness. He still had his slight tummy, though it was an afterthought compared to lean arms, a solid chest, and, if she allowed her eyes to trail down far enough, legs that were nearly as fit as when he was working on the shipyard floor. She reached out and lightly touched his bicep.

"Yes…?" he asked.

"Nothing… just… I can tell you've been working hard. Not skipping anything, are you?"

"Not even Leg Day." John chuckled and slid down the bench so as to lean upwards and pull Clara in for a kiss. She was surprised when she felt the whiskers from John's beard brush up against her face; they were damp with sweat, but soft as they tickled her nose and chin.

"Ooh… that _does_ feel nice," she giggled as they parted. "Different, but nice."

"See? I told you, now didn't I?" He guided Clara up off the chair and closer towards him. Gathering her skirt, she sat on his waist and pressed their chests together. He was sticky from sweating and smelled a bit odd, but she ignored those things and rubbed her nose along the side of his face.

"Keep it like this and you can have it as long as you like," she purred.

"Just wait until later on, after I've showered, and I'll have you squirming so bad you'll beg for mercy."

"I like the sound of that." She snuggled in as his arms wrapped around her and they laid together on the bench. Eventually, Clara glanced up at the barbell and tilted her head. "How much weight is that?"

"Right now? About eight stone," John replied. "It's probably a little much for me at the moment, so I'll drop back down to seven."

"That's _still_ more than me," she muttered. "I guess you're past the point to where I'm a good substitute for the weights, huh?"

"Oh, now I wouldn't say that," he said. "That's a whole different set of muscles I'm exercising when I pick you up. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"I still need to take care of the rest of the laundry," Clara groaned. With a grumble she rolled off her husband and trudged back over to the clothes line. She finished pinning the remaining shirts to the line when she felt John's hands rest on her hips from behind. His breath ghosted against her skin before his beard, making her knees knock and goosebumps prickle over her body.

"Would you like to finish this upstairs?" he murmured in her ear. His wife took a deep breath and nodded. They both turned around and bolted up the stairs, ready to end their silly facial hair dispute once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With numerous forerunners dating as early as the 17th century, the Modern Olympic Games as we know them only really came to fruition with the foundation of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) in 1890. The first Olympic Congress was held in 1894 and two years later was the first set of Games in Athens, Greece, in 1896. John turned five later that year, so all the immense hype around reporting the event would probably have been amongst his earliest memories, or impressions of memories. Unfortunately, he would be more likely to have stronger memories of hearing about the more sideshow-esque Games that took place in 1900 Paris, France and 1904 St. Louis, Missouri, USA. From what I can tell, things took a return to form in 1908 London, which would have been when John turned seventeen. Sometimes I forget John would turn 124 this year; dude is old.
> 
> Another note, for those unfamiliar, stone as a unit of measurement is about fourteen pounds. This means eight stone is one hundred-fourteen pounds or just over fifty kilograms. I don't know if it's mainly a generational thing these days, since the only people I've heard use the term have been my parents' age and older, but I can't be positive.


	50. February 1947

The phone rang, shattering the silence that permeated the house. John reluctantly walked into the hall and picked it up, hugging his torso with his other arm as he tried to not let the cold get the best of him.

"Smith Residence, John speaking."

" _Hello John, it's Samuel Brown. I'm calling from my house_."

John blinked, concerned. "Is everything alright?"

" _It is—I just wanted to tell you to not come in to the office tomorrow because I won't be there. Can we move our appointment to same time next week?_ "

"Sure. If you want, I can leave the rough draft with Elizabeth and take the downtime to brainstorm other ideas…"

" ** _No_** _… uh… she… uh… won't be there either_ ," Mr. Brown said. " _Just don't bother. Think of it like a spontaneous holiday_."

"Well, I ain't going to the seaside, I can say that much."

" _That's what I like about you, John: always the jokester. I have to get going; see you next week_."

John was about to reply back when the call dropped and he was greeted by a dialtone. Shrugging, he replaced the receiver and retreated back to the sitting room, where he found Clara precisely where he had left her: wrapped up in a multitude of blankets.

"Who was that?" she asked as she allowed him access to the cocoon of warmth again. He curled around her, holding her close.

"Mr. Brown; he wanted to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," he replied, his voice barely above a mutter. "Something tells me he doesn't want to go out in this weather either."

"Can't you just leave your stuff with his secretary?"

"She's not coming in either. In fact, I think she's the reason _he's_ not coming in."

Clara thought on that for a moment before shaking her head into his chest. "I don't want to know."

"Wise choice," John grumbled. His mind ricocheted back to the month prior, when he had accidentally walked in on Mr. Brown talking a little too close to his secretary for comfort and had to duck out of the office quickly. "It really needs to stop snowing and being so damn cold. You know, the neighbors really did pick the perfect time to get transferred."

"Where did his company move him again?"

" _South Africa_ , where it's summer now and warm and _always warm_ and it makes me jealous," he said into his wife's hair. Clara just rolled her eyes, unseen to all but the ceiling.

"It can't be warm there all year, everywhere," she said. "Besides, you can't speak a lick of Dutch and you'd want to come back after two weeks."

"…but it would be the warmest two weeks I'd ever experience, which sounds like paradise right about now."

"How about I go and start on some dinner?" Clara asked.

"Dinner? We haven't even had lunch yet," John questioned. His wife wiggled in his arms, trying to decide what she was going to do.

"I don't know when they're going to cut the electric and gas next, so I need to get started now before I'm stuck with two hours till dinner and a cold oven," she explained. "Besides, it will help heat the house too."

"You've got me there," he nodded. He let go of Clara and pulled the blankets around him tighter to compensate for the lack of her body heat as she vanished into the house. "Too bad you don't have enough of the ingredients to bake some biscuits; that could help."

"If you're that worried about being cold, then come into the kitchen while I'm cooking," she called out. John chose the fluffiest blanket and wrapped it around him before trudging through the sitting room and the hall to the back of the house where the kitchen was. He sat down at the table and watched as Clara moved about and began to prep their dinner. She moved about precisely, chopping vegetables and boiling water and all sorts of miscellanea.

"What will you do if the gas cuts while you're cooking?" he asked.

"It's vegetable stew, so it can set for a while whether it's cooking or not, and we can let it simmer for as long as we need it to." She glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Is this what I have to look forward to in thirty years?"

John's eyebrows rose inquisitively. "Look forward to what?"

"Being cold all the time," Clara snarked. "It's starting to warm up in here, but you still look like you're comfy-cozy in your blanket there." She threw a grin his way, a glint in her eye. "Am I right?"

"Oh, I imagine you've got plenty to anticipate in thirty years," he replied, flashing his teeth. He waited until she came to his side to open up his arms, blanket flowing out like a cape, and snatched his wife down into his lap. "I think my old bones need a bit more warmth than this blanket will allow."

"Only for a little bit," she chuckled. John's beard nuzzled her neck and she placed her nose in his fluff of hair. "I can't just allow water to boil all day without doing anything with it."

"You could boil more water."

"I thought you knew how cooking works."

"Only when it benefits me." His fingers held on to her waist tightly, gently massaging as he pressed kisses along her neck. "I guess I should let you go now, eh?"

"Maybe we can let the water sit for a while longer, just this once," Clara breathed.

John smiled against her hairline and shifted in his chair—he was glad they both knew how to keep warm.

* * *

The following morning, as Clara woke up, she instinctively curled against the other weight in the bed. Despite his body and the extra blankets piled on them, a chill shook her. John muttered incoherently, not yet awake.

"Whuzzat?" he asked.

"Can't you feel it?"

"Hmm?"

"It's _freezing_ ," she replied. Rolling over, she frowned at her husband as he was waking up. "Oh, that's right, your face is warm so you're impervious to the cold."

"Not _impervious_ , but it helps," he muttered. John let Clara go and threw off the blanket as he got up to prepare for the day. His wife, however…

" _Christ_ , it's cold in here," she cursed as she got out of bed. "Is the power out again?"

He flicked the light switch on and off, proving her hypothesis wrong. "The furnace must be doing something funny," he grumbled. "Where'd you put the torch?"

"The cupboard in the front hall," she replied. After throwing wool trousers on over his long johns and layering a jumper and hooded sweatshirt over his upper body, he shuffled out of the room and down the stairs. Clara hurried to get dressed herself, putting on as many pairs of John's socks as was comfortable and finding her thickest cardigan. She then followed John down the stairs and found him in the basement, laying on the floor and shining the torch up into the underneath of the furnace.

"Anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"I wish there was," he said as he got up. "Everything looks like it's all in order—the gas cut. There's nothing we can do until it turns back on."

"Oh, there's _plenty_ that we can do, but none of it involves turning the heat back on," Clara said almost bitterly. "Too bad one of them is _freeze to death_."

"It's a bit early, but I can think of a way or two to keep us toasty in the meantime," John chuckled. He put his hands on his wife's waist and bent down to kiss her. She reciprocated, yet pushed away almost immediately with a gasp and bolted up the stairs.

"I have an idea! Come on!" she laughed. Her husband stood in the basement bemused for a moment before following her. He found Clara in the front sitting room, strategically arranging chairs and pulling blankets off the furniture.

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked.

"I remembered some of my London kids doing this one night in Clydebank," she explained, draping a blanket between the backs of two chairs. "They built theirs just for fun, but if we do this it means all we need to keep warm is a smaller space. You still have that small electric heater from the resale shop, yeah?"

"It's in the cupboard below the basement stairs…"

"Then go fetch it while I grab the blankets off the beds and we'll be set in no time!" She rushed out of the room and bounded up the stairs.

"…and you're the fool who married her," John sighed at himself, more amused than anything. He went back down into the basement and found the electric heater along with an extension cord. Bringing both up, he found that Clara's project was complete and she was waiting patiently for him in the blanket fort.

"Oh, good, give it here," she said, grabbing for the heater. He gave it to her and found a plug for the cord. Once it was in he connected it to the plug that was now sticking out from underneath the fort, he left the room and came back with the stuff for breakfast piled on a tray and the box with their camp stove under his arm. John knelt down at the blanket-structure entrance and cleared his throat.

"Your meal, madam."

"Thank you; how kind," Clara replied. She poked her head out and grabbed the tray, allowing John to make his own way in. It _was_ noticeably warmer in the collection of blankets than in the rest of the house, and the heater wasn't even turned up very high.

"How clever—your idea worked," he chuckled as he began to set up the stove. Clara scooped a tiny bit of jam out of the jar and licked it off the spoon with a grin.

"Every now and then I have a good one, just to throw you off," she smirked. Once they heated their water for tea and shut the stove off they ate breakfast snuggled in to one another, ready to take on any challenge that the weather was going to throw at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as winters go, this one in real life was a doozy for the UK and Continental Europe. Thanks to a postwar economy that had yet to recover, as well as general of shortages of things such as food (rationing was still a thing (potatoes began to be put on ration because of this winter, since so many of them were ruined by frost and couldn't be harvested because they were frozen in the ground)) and fuel (many cuts to power/working by candlelight was common, though probably a bit more scheduled than portrayed), it made things a bit tight. A couple big snowstorms also hit and the runoff ended up flooding a decent portion of England. The cold and snow weren't exactly comparable to Moscow or Minnesota during certain years, but British weather is normally much milder (tropical jetstreams, currents, and other technical weather stuff like that influencing them) and their rapidly-building infrastructure was not used to the demands of heavy snowmelt caused by multiple major storms meaning oops people weren't prepared. Of course it wasn't too far removed from the Little Ice Age, but that's neither here nor there. I wouldn't recommend lighting a campfire indoors though. John and Clara are part of a generation that liked to put live-flame candles on dry Christmas trees though, so they're used to being much more careful than we are.


	51. April 1947

It was a pleasant afternoon, with the sun shining cheerily down upon a London that felt desperate for its warmth. Clara was busy getting some cleaning done before heading out to do some shopping for that night's meal. She was dusting in the front room when she looked out the front window and caught sight of a moving lorry in the drive next door. Two women were unloading the back, the only people in sight.

' _Huh, they're moving in_ _ **now**_ _?_ ' she wondered. Putting down the dusting rag and grabbing her shopping basket, Clara walked to the bottom of the stairs. "Hey John? I'm going to the store now and get it out of the way early!"

"Okay, I'll see you later!" he replied, unseen. Satisfied, she walked out the door and locked up before heading straight to the garden wall.

"Hello there! My name is Clara Smith; are you the new neighbors?" One of the women, the shorter one with brown hair, came up to the garden wall and smiled sweetly.

"Yes, we are," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Jenny Flint, and my cousins and I just bought this house."

"Your cousins?"

"Her maternal uncle is my father," the other woman replied, approaching the two. She had olive skin and deep black hair, and Clara shook her hand as well. "Vasiliki Trask."

" _Vasiliki_? Did I say it correctly?"

"Yes, although you can call me 'Vastra'. It's easier for everyone than Mother's native Greek. My younger brother Strax is in the house." She saw the curious look in her new neighbor's eye and decided to elaborate. "His actual name is Straton, but we were given nicknames as children and they stuck."

"Well, if you prefer Vastra and Strax, then that's what I'll call you," Clara said. She paused for a moment as a loud yawp came from inside the house and a cat ran out the front door and into the street. A short, stocky man about her age came onto the porch with a broom, shaking it at the retreating animal.

"And that should teach you to mess with the Great Straton Trask, you filthy squatter! I hope we meet again on the battlefield of glory, for I will destroy you!" he shouted before turning back into the house. Clara looked at Vastra and Jenny and tried to keep her face poker-straight.

"He's harmless, but I apologize in advance," Vastra groaned. She rubbed her temple in irritation. "Not all there, my brother, and has been worse since he came back."

"That's why he's with us—can't be by himself anymore, but he truly does mean well… _mostly_ …" Jenny tried to explain. More shouting came from the house and a second cat ran out. "He's never hurt anything seriously."

"That's alright; it just means that Mr. Smith and I have some learning to do, that's all," Clara said cheerily. "Say, why don't you three come over for dinner tonight? You can meet my husband and not have to worry about finding where the market is right away."

"That is very kind of you," Jenny replied. "Won't that be lovely, Vastra?"

Vastra paused and observed Clara for a moment before nodding. "When do you normally have supper on the table?"

"Half past six; is that alright?"

"That's fine," Vastra nodded almost stiffly. "Thank you very much and we'll see you then."

"Okay, goodbye!" Clara smiled. She turned on her heel and began the walk down the street that would take her to the shop.

* * *

Once Clara came back home she went straight to work. She put the food away for the time being and picked her cleaning back up from before she left. After some more dusting and sweeping and a bit of polishing, she was finally finished and began to prep for dinner itself. She was planning a hearty veg casserole—filling and plentiful so that the neighbors could even take some home if they wished. It was nearly time for tea when she heard footsteps overhead, a flush of the loo, and the steps make their way down the stairs.

"Cla _ra_ ," John sang as he sauntered into the kitchen, "guess what I just heard on the radio."

"They're lifting the restrictions on foreign travel early?" she pondered while chopping veg.

"Nope; Rangers won the Cup," he beamed. Carefully, he swiped a chunk of carrot and popped it in his mouth before Clara could smack his hand away from the cutting board.

"I thought the Cup was still playing, and that the Rangers can't win it because they're Scottish," she deadpanned. Her husband scoffed in amusement.

"Nah, not that silly English stuff where you need to replay a _semi-final_ ," John laughed. "I'm talking about the Scottish League Cup—the first one—so I'm going to have to pop down to the newsstand tomorrow and see what paper the score ran in." He nabbed another piece of carrot and looked at all the food that was on the table. "Are you planning for leftovers?"

"No, I've invited the new neighbors over for dinner," Clara said resolutely. "It's a brother and sister and their cousin and we are going to be _nice_ to them so do us a favor and _behave_."

"I'm _nice_ to people, Clara," her husband protested. "It's _idiots_ I have a problem with."

"Well, they don't seem like idiots to me," she replied. "The brother seems like he has some unseen war wounds, but the sister and cousin appear adjusted enough—they seem like ladies made of the tough stuff."

"You sure they're cousins?" he asked, going and fetching himself a glass of water. Clara blinked at the thought.

"Yeah…? It's what they said they were. Why?"

"Oh, just wondering," he shrugged. After placing a now-empty glass in the sink, he turned towards the stove and, after noticing the kettle wasn't on, added, "Need me to make tea while you're working on that?"

"About time you offered; was almost about to take out an advertisement on the radio to get your attention."

John chuckled lowly as he took the kettle off the stove and began to do what he could to help, dodging his wife as she waxed poetic about the monotony of housework and how she was learning rather quickly that it was a chore to cook for the entire neighborhood.

* * *

Eventually, dinner was made and keeping warm in the oven, Clara had changed her blouse after splattering it in sauce, and she was attempting to fuss over John as he thumbed through a newspaper from earlier in the day in the front sitting room. Every time she attempted to fix his hair to her specifications, he batted her hands away.

"Clara, please, I'm _fifty-five_ … I think I know how I should look when meeting new neighbors," he grumbled. "Isn't there anything else for you to rearrange?"

She was about to hiss out an answer about first impressions when the doorbell rang, cutting her off. "Oh, they're here!" she gasped. Clara rushed into the front hall and let their visitors in. "Welcome! How are you doing?"

"Well, thank you," Jenny replied. She saw John appear in the sitting room doorway and jumped slightly in surprise. "Oh, hello."

"Hello," he echoed, nodding politely. Clara took him by the hand and pulled him closer.

"John, these are the new neighbors, Vastra and Strax, and their cousin Jenny," she explained. She turned to her guests and smiled confidently. "This is my husband John; he works from home, which is why you didn't see him outside earlier."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," John said.

"The pleasure is ours," Jenny replied. She shook John's hand, seemingly nervous. "How long have you been married?"

"Seven years as of next week," he grinned proudly.

"Well congratulations," Vastra said with a nod. The group began to walk through the house, with John taking the guests to the dining room and Clara heading into the kitchen to grab dinner. "Tell me, what is it that you do for a living that allows you to stay hidden away?"

"I write and illustrate children's books," he replied, sitting down at the end of the table. Vastra and Strax sat down on one side of the table and Jenny sat across from Vastra, leaving the seat next to John empty. "It's what I did in Glasgow before the war and meeting Clara, and I was lucky I could get back to it. What about you?"

"Jenny and I are currently working for Scotland Yard as detectives," Vastra said. "They loved our undercover work during the war and wanted us to continue."

"That's exciting, but I won't ask too much—the police have to keep some secrets." It was then that Clara came through with the casserole, setting it down on the table before taking the final seat. "What do you do, Strax?"

"I keep the house free of spies and scoundrels," the short man declared. "Great Britain may have won the war, but there are still many battles to be fought."

"Strax stays home and cooks and cleans," Vastra said as she held up her plate for John to serve casserole onto. "You do _behave_ , don't you Brother?"

"The grey-haired man only inquired about my purpose," Strax replied.

"Oh, don't worry Strax, I agree," John said. He gave Vastra a knowing glance before moving on to serving Jenny's plate. "That's how we got into the last war, isn't it? Battles not being settled after my lot pulled out?"

"You served in the First World War? Good show," Strax commended. He held up his plate and watched as food was scooped onto it. "Did you ride into battle in a blaze of glory, with your kilt majestically flapping in the breeze and a broadsword in-hand?"

"Um… _no_ ," John said, cocking an eyebrow at Strax. His visitor began to eat nonchalantly, as if his question had been all sorts of serious and legitimate. After serving Clara and himself, John silently watched his guests as he began to eat his dinner.

"So did I hear correctly you're detectives?" Clara asked. "That must be exciting."

"Oh, it can be," Jenny beamed. "We do a lot of undercover work, and work as a pair."

"It's not all fun and games though," Vastra added. She glanced across the table at Jenny, a sly smile creeping across her face. "Remember that job we had a couple months ago infiltrating that club? Good thing we had each other's backs or the Smiths would only be entertaining one of us tonight."

"That's true," she agreed, face flushing red. "It's good knowing you can work in such a dangerous field as police work with someone as close as your cousin at your side." She stopped as John began to chuckle from the end of the table, breaking up the conversation.

"You're not cousins," he said simply. The rest of the table went quiet while John continued eating.

"I'm sorry?" Vastra retorted. "Jenny and I _are_ …"

"No, you're not, and that's okay. I don't mind in the slightest." He shoveled another forkful of veg into his mouth and shrugged noncommittally. "If you don't want it known, I won't tell anyone, but you're not fooling me."

"If they don't want _what_ known, John?" Clara asked. Her eyes were wide as she looked at her guests in confusion. "What is he talking about?"

"We have no idea what you are referring to, Mr. Smith," Jenny replied stiffly. The response was so mechanical that her hostess _knew_ she was aware of the meaning behind his words. "I am Vastra's…"

"…wife," John finished. He glanced around the table at the shocked faces and suddenly felt as if he were being put on trial. "What…? It's kind of obvious."

"Do you wish for me to destroy him, Sister?" Strax muttered, leaning over towards Vastra. She shook her head.

"No, Strax. I'm just curious as to how Mr. Smith figured it out."

"I used to date women like you, or, to be a bit more precise, women like you tried to 'date' me because I was one of only a few bachelors in the area and they thought the reasoning was more along the lines of why they hadn't married yet either." He sipped his water casually, washing out his mouth of any food residue still there. "A man gets good at sorting those out after a while from the more… intimately compatible singles out there. Don't think I'm judging you, but don't think I'm stupid either."

Vastra exhaled heavily and leaned back in her chair. "Leave it to an _artist_ to work everything out without us being his neighbor for a whole day," she said sharply. "You know, that's why we had to move."

"…because someone threatened to make hell for Scotland Yard for keeping us employed if we didn't move out of the neighborhood," Jenny elaborated.

"Pity," John said. "You do good work, right? What you do at home shouldn't matter."

"You'd think, anyways," Vastra grumbled. "The stares we get just from our coworkers makes me glad I swore off men."

"That sounds similar to how there were days one of John's mates at his old job wouldn't give him the time of day because of me," Clara smirked.

"Didn't talk to me? Sometimes it was a miracle in that Verity didn't take a welding torch to my support rope and let me fall to the yard floor," John deadpanned, glaring at his wife out the corner of his eye. Jenny giggled into her casserole and Vastra leaned forward, sitting straight up in her seat and taking a calculated sip of water.

"This sounds _interesting_ , Mr. Smith. Please, tell us more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 1946/47 campaign was the first full season of football in both Scotland and England after WWII, as well as being the inaugural season for the Scottish League Cup, where John's Rangers beat out Aberdeen F.C. 4-0 to win the title. John's snarky comment, however, is about the 1947 FA Cup semifinal where Burnley and Liverpool came to a draw and had to replay two weeks later (which isn't uncommon, but he's just being a shit).
> 
> Also, reminder that 1947 is the year where John and Clara's ages align with their actors' at the start of s8. John has a little more time to go thanks to the birthday flip, but Clara's already there.


	52. August 1947

With the signoff of the afternoon news broadcast and the switchover to music, John put down his pencil and stretched. It was a warm and lazy day, with him just barely able to keep himself awake with work. Listening to the news hadn't even helped, as the dull, monotone newscaster accent did nothing more than lull him further towards a nap. He needed to get some headway in his character designs though; only afterwards could he start thinking of sleeping. Closing the book he borrowed from the library, he rolled the chair across the room and placed it on a small stack.

"Terry and Harry down, Barry to go," he muttered aloud. The book he was working on involved Terry Turtle being left behind as his friends Harry Hare and Barry Brock left on a long trip thanks to a slow gait and cumbersome shell. Instead of being sad, Terry sorted his friends' post and watered the plants and made sure weeds didn't overtake the garden. It ended on a happy note, one where Terry's efforts go greatly appreciated. He already had down what he wanted the turtle and hare to look like, and now it was time for the badger. John looked through the stack of reference books and groaned—he left the library book about badgers on the table in the front sitting room the previous night.

Groaning, he stood up and stretched again before heading down the stairs to the main floor, skritching his scalp. He walked right into the sitting room and stopped dead in his tracks, met by the sight of ten of the neighborhood ladies and his wife scattered all over the sitting room and staring at him.

That's right. It was Clara's turn to host Book Club.

"Oh, uh, s-sorry ladies," he stammered. "I, uh…"

"Out!" Clara ordered, bolting up to her feet and shoving her husband back out into the hall. "Girls only, and you know that."

"…but Clara…"

"No buts, you knew ahead of time," she said, her voice holding a sharp undercurrent. "You're just going to have to wait for whatever it is."

John opened his mouth in an effort to ask for his book, only for his wife to put a finger to his lips and disappear behind the door again. After standing awkwardly in his own hallway for a moment, he sighed in resignation and walked to the kitchen at the back of the house. Strax was there putting together tea for ten, including what looked like some of the worst-looking cucumber sandwiches he had ever seen, wearing Clara's good apron over a suit.

"Salutations, Doctor," the shorter man nodded. He had taken to calling John that ever since he had learned his pseudonym and taken it to heart. "Have you decided to stop work for the day?"

"No, more like I'm stuck," John replied. "I accidentally left a book in the sitting room Clara's using for Book Club and she won't let me in to fetch it. Right now I'm working on character models and what I need is reference." He took a glass from the cupboard and got himself a drink of water from the sink tap.

"Then I wonder why I am allowed, yet you are not," Strax mused. "Maybe it is a rule on one's maximum height, considering you are very tall and I am not."

"No… I don't think it's that," John snarked, taking a sip of water. Ever since Clara had extended the offer to Jenny (and Vastra, though she politely declined) to join the neighborhood ladies in their monthly reading ventures, things had suddenly become fancier-sounding as Strax's services were immediately offered as a sort of butler for the club meetings. It kept him busy and out of others' gardens during a time when Jenny was occupied, so no one really minded. Even Strax himself did not mind, and from what John had been able to gather, he actually enjoyed himself. It was a pity, almost, that the time of grand service in country estates was dying-to-dead, or else he would have had a true calling.

"Well, whatever the case is, I have to get these sandwiches to the ladies or Miss Jenny and Miss Clara will be furious with me," Strax said. He took the service tray with him and vanished into the hall.

' _Wait a second_ …' John thought as he narrowed his eyes at the kitchen door. ' _Maybe I can have Strax get it for me. Stealth isn't his strong suit, but anything's possible_.' He waited until Strax returned, only to turn him around as soon as he set the empty platter on the table.

"Strax, I have a little job for you," he said. Opening the door to the sitting room a crack, he pointed into the room and lowered his voice. "You see that stack of books next to Mrs. Yates?"

"Yes?"

"The top one is a book I rented from the library on badgers—could you fetch it for me?"

"Of course I will," Strax replied. He nearly went in right then and there, but John pulled him back.

"No, Clara will catch you!" he hissed. "You have to be _sneaky_ about this one, or you won't be able to get it."

"Oh… I understand. I shall retrieve it when I serve the ladies more tea."

"That's a good man," John grinned. "Get that past the wives and you will bring honor and glory to all of Grynden Street."

* * *

"Sorry about that," Clara smiled as she closed the door behind her. John walking in had interrupted their discussion and brought the book club meeting to a screeching halt. It was her first time hosting and she didn't want to become looked down upon as the house where they could get nothing done, despite there not being any children to run around. "Alright, we can continue."

"Wait, _that_ was your husband?" Mrs. Jones asked. "I rarely see him, so I thought it was just someone who came over once in a while to mow the yard and mend things around the house while your husband was away."

"Oh, no, that's definitely Mr. Smith," Jenny replied, fielding the conversation for the hostess. "He's a charming man once you get to know him. You probably don't see him much because you live at opposite ends of the street."

"His studio is one of the spare rooms, so he works from home," Clara added. "The most often he leaves the house is to visit his editor or go for the shopping; it's nothing, really."

"If you say so," Mrs. Jones said into her tea, not fully convinced. She put her cup down and glanced back down at her copy of that month's book. "Right, now where were we? Oh yes: _Poirot_. Is his role in _The Hollow_ one that only he can fill, or can it be taken by another?"

"Hold on—I'm interested in this mystery husband that Mrs. Smith seems to have under lock and key," one of the other women said. Mrs. Jones muttered under her breath and took another drink of tea; the club had been her idea yet most of the time meetings only involved neighborhood gossip and complaining about difficult children and bone-idle husbands while fulfilling their monthly snack indulgence.

"I don't have him under lock and key, Mrs. Owens," Clara giggled. "John is free to come and go as he pleases. It's just that usually he doesn't have much desire to leave very often when most of what he wants and needs is right here."

"Still: tall, silver, that two-day-scruff he's got going on—how have you been keeping women off him all this time?" Mrs. Owens asked. It was then that Strax came in, carrying a tray with sandwiches that he began to offer to the club members. "I mean, it can't be easy with him looking like that. That beard he kept in the winter made it almost doubly so."

"Yeah, why _did_ he shave off his beard?" Jenny wondered. "When we met it seemed like he took rather good care of it."

"Too warm for the summer months," Clara explained. She left it at that though, being that they didn't need to know _she_ made him shave the beard off, claiming he could regrow it when the weather turned cool again. "I met him before he went grey, and can you imagine he was considered the town oddball?"

"Scots don't know how to pick them," Mrs. Jackson sighed. "My sister married one and out of his entire family she's the only normal one that married in."

"Are you sure that's just not your bias talking?" Mrs. Jones grumbled. "Now can we please stop talking about husbands and resume talking about the month's book?"

"Yes, in just a moment," Mrs. Owens said nonchalantly. "So what did he _do_ that made him the town oddball? He doesn't seem that odd to me."

"John isn't from a neighborhood that turns out many artists, so his pursuing book illustration made him appear to be a bit of an odd duck." Clara sipped her tea and shrugged, watching as Strax left the room. "That and he hadn't married before—lived alone—and you know how that makes a man look."

"Wait, you mean you're _not_ his second wife?" Mrs. Yates marveled. "I'm sorry, but when I first saw the two of you that's what I thought…"

"Oh, no, that's alright; John's just a late bloomer, is all," Clara replied cheerily, trying to not make it seem like she was gritting her teeth. "It's better than many others have assumed."

"Well I think it's lovely," Jenny said. "Living with the love of your life, despite obstacles… that's romantic no matter how you look at it."

"Thank you," Clara nodded. She didn't dare commend Jenny much further, or else risk her secret reaching Mrs. Jones's unfavorable ear. "Now where is Strax with that tea?"

"Did you call for me, Miss Clara?" Strax asked, carrying a large teapot into the room. "Do you require a warm-up?"

"Yes, please," she replied. Clara held out her cup and Strax refilled it before moving on to top off the other cups in the room. "So now what were we talking about before my darling idiot decided to break our concentration?"

"The role of Poirot in _The Hollow_ …"

"We were talking about what we are going to do about the rabbits that keep on ravaging the petunias," Mrs. Yates said. "My mum always swore that hair clippings would work, but it hasn't _yet_ and I just don't feel right about laying out poison for them."

Jenny shifted in her seat, leaning in closer. "Maybe marigolds interspersed in the petunias would work—Strax…?" She tilted her head as she looked at the man who was now across the room. "What did you just put under your arm?"

"Nothing, Miss Jenny," he lied. Mrs. Jones took the book tucked underneath Strax's arm and read the title aloud.

" _'Badgers and Brocks'_? What on earth do you need this for?"

"The Doctor requires it in order to complete more drawings," Strax said. "Was this the incorrect book?"

Over on the other side of the room, Clara sank into her chair and groaned. "I told him he was going to have to wait… here Strax, bring him this." She stood up, crossed the room, and took a book off the shelf, handing it to him. "Tell Mr. Smith that this will have to do for the time being."

"Understood." He then left, taking the book with him.

"What did you…?" Mrs. Owens asked. Clara simply put a finger to her lips and Jenny silently counted down on her fingers from five.

"STRAX!" John shouted in frustration once Jenny reached zero.

" _Dumb Witness_ ," Clara grinned. "Can we read that one next? It's one of my favorites."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both The Hollow (1946) and Dumb Witness (1937) are Agatha Christie mysteries that feature her famous Belgian detective character Poirot (whom she reportedly was annoyed with after a while and even created a character that lampshaded the fact). Although Dumb Witness uses "dumb" as in "silent" or "mute", Clara definitely uses it here as a jab at John in a rather not-nice way.


	53. December 1947

"I still don't know why you're making me do this," John frowned. He adjusted the belt holding his coat in place and examined himself in the bedroom's full-length mirror. Red velvet broken by white trim and a shiny black belt—it was _appalling_. "I mean, I look ridiculous… like a gangly pimple."

"No, you look like Father Christmas," Clara insisted from the bathroom, her voice filtering in from the attached room. "Why grow the beard if you don't even make use of it every now and then?"

"It's to keep my _face warm_ ," he whined, "you know, in case we have another winter like the last one?" After fiddling with the suit again, he tried looking at himself sideways to see if that made a difference. Clara then walked into the bedroom, smoothing out the white pinafore of her matching red dress. She made her way over towards her husband and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"Just think that it's multipurpose," she said. The hired coat still smelled like moth balls, but at least not as bad as when she first picked it up. She was the one that had volunteered them to dress up and distribute presents to the neighborhood children down the street at the tree sitting in the dead end, and it seemed like he was trying to find every possible reason to complain about it. "You've been growing it since October, and you fit the suit well enough."

"Yeah, but Father Christmas is _old_ and… well…" John bemoaned. His wife simply shook her head and rubbed her nose in his back.

"It's great practice for later," she chuckled. "Besides, it's only for this year."

"Yeah, they said the neighborhood isn't going to do this every year, but what happens when they want to do it again? Get Vastra to do it? Her brother? Strax would toss a smaller child in the tree and tell the rest that the only presents given on the battlefield are honor and glory."

"Straton is barely taller than half the kids on the block," Clara said, rolling her eyes. She looked at the two of them in the mirror and rubbed his stomach. "Who knows how you'll feel about it next time around—you might actually _enjoy yourself_ tonight, Heaven forbid."

John turned around and faced Clara, leaning down to kiss her behind the ear. "At least I'm getting a nice bottle of whisky out of this."

"I would think that the kids' faces should be reward enough," she scolded. "Aren't you looking forward to all the surprised gasps and starry eyes?"

"They know who I am—they're not stupid," John frowned. He pulled his face back and looked down into Clara's eyes. "They know I'm Mr. Smith from down the lane, not Mr. Claus from the North Pole."

"Yes, but as long as you're in this suit you _are_ Father Christmas. It doesn't matter who you are when you take it off. They know that as long as someone wears the suit, he's real." She brushed some lint from his shoulders and sighed sadly. "Just relax and enjoy yourself—it's just tangerines and little things the parents gave us."

"We don't even have to be down there until after nightfall." He was right, as it had took them less time to get ready than anticipated and the sun was still above the rooftops. "I think we should just take these getups off until the sun has _actually_ set." The corner of his mouth turned up and his teeth flashed devilishly.

"Don't you dare," Clara scolded. She tried not to laugh as hands found her bottom and beard tickled her neck. "We're going to be Santa and Mrs. Claus in a few hours… we shouldn't…"

"At least a good snog, please?" John pleaded softly. The hairs of his mustache tickled her ear, sending her knees knocking. "Come on… I've been exceptionally good this year, Clara. I thought you knew."

"You could have fooled me," she breathed, creeping up on her toes to press their lips together. "Because it seems to me that out of all people, Father Christmas has been the naughty one." She slid onto his lap as he sat down at the foot of the bed, tossing his cap to the floor so she could ruffle his hair as they continued the kiss. Parting, she inhaled sharply as she nuzzled her nose into his beard; the exhale was just as heavy, turning into a defeated sigh.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why do I even bother?" she groaned, only half out of irritation. She pushed John onto his back and gathered her skirts so that she could straddle his waist as she unbuckled his belt and slowly slipped it off. The metal of the buckle made a loud _clink_ as it fell on the floor, discarded.

"Looks like Father Christmas isn't the only naughty one," John smirked as he cupped his wife's face in his hands and pulled her down for a kiss. Throwing open his red coat, Clara trailed her hands over his stomach and across his chest as she leaned in to his caress.

"Unzip me, please," she requested, coming loose from his grip and trailing kisses over his jaw and down the curve of his neck. "I don't want to take this back to the fancy dress shop and need to pay a cleaning surcharge."

"As long as that's what puts me back on the nice list," he chuckled. As he unzipped her dress he grazed his fingertips down her spine, an action he discovered she was enjoying with increasing enthusiasm as of late. She grasped for his trouser belt as he reached the base of her spine and rubbed in a tight circle.

At least one part of his evening was guaranteed to be enjoyable.

* * *

Hours later, long after the sun had set, the neighborhood children were all standing under the tree in the street's dead end. Twenty-six eyes stared at the house down the lane where they knew their fun was coming from, nearly bouncing in anticipation. It was cold outside, making their teeth chatter and breath condense into wispy mist.

"Aren't Mr. and Mrs. Smith supposed to be here by now?" one kid asked. "My face is starting to feel numb."

"Mum and Dad said _after dark_ , so maybe we came out too early once it _was_ dark," another suggested. They all sort of shrugged as they huddled together, silent until one kid caught sight of their quarry.

"There he is! Santa's here!" The kids all cheered as they watched Mr. Smith run down the street, arm flapping about and a sack thrown over his shoulder. They quieted, however, when he came closer and it was apparent to them that he had just rolled out of bed.

"Hey, sorry I'm late kids—had to do a few last-minute things. Ho, ho, ho and all that," he said a little too sharply for a proper apology. One of the girls folded her arms and tapped her foot.

"Where's Mrs. Claus?" she asked. "I thought it was supposed to be you and _Mrs. Claus_."

"Mrs. Claus is… _busy_ … at the moment… and… it's just better she stay at the North Pole," John replied nervously.

"What's she doing?" another child asked.

"Recovering from a long ride…" he said. He then winced immediately—too much information for someone too under-informed. "Erm… what I mean is, Mrs. Claus is highly integral to operations at the North Pole, overseeing elves and all that, and being out all day in the sleigh today wore her out. She went to uh… Surrey. Yes; she went to Surrey and back today." Hopefully they bought the lie and if not, well, they were going to have to deal with it anyways.

"Did being out in the sleigh wear you out too?" one of the smaller children asked. John's face went blank.

"Why would you say that…?"

"Your hair looks like Daddy's in the morning and he's always tired," was the response. He reached a hand up and felt his hair—yes, he forgot to comb through it after Clara had thoroughly done so earlier. Wait… where was his cap? Shit, the floor…

"I guess my hat-hair was worse than I thought," he muttered.

"Mr. Smith, you're a rubbish Santa," a kid frowned. The man furrowed his eyebrows and glared, not having any of it.

"Do you want your tangerine and toy rocket or am I going to have a snack and a new mantelpiece later?" he snarled. The kids all stayed silent. "Good. Now queue up, single-file, and no sass."

The children did as their rubbish Santa instructed and soon the presents were distributed. John slunk back to his house and grumbled as he closed the door with his back, leaning up against it. He kicked off his boots and continued to remove articles of clothing as he sluggishly made his way back up the stairs. By the time he reached his bedroom he was down to his pants and slid back underneath the warmth of the duvet to join a sleeping Clara. As soon as he touched his skin to hers, she jolted awake.

" _Christ_ , you're _freezing_ ," she cursed. John rubbed his beard on her stomach and pressed his lips above her navel before beginning to trail up to her breasts, shimmying up as he did so.

"It's cold outside, and the kids needed their stuff," he murmured between kisses. "Besides, Mrs. Claus knows exactly how to warm her husband back up."

Clara rolled her eyes and groaned at her husband's questionable sense of humor as she rolled John over until he was gazing up at her. "By allowing him to grow a beard," she smirked. She lowered herself back down and curled up in his embrace. "Did the wee rascals behave for Santa?"

"That Owens boy has some cheek on him, calling me rubbish," John responded. "Our bairns won't treat Father Christmas like that, not if I have anything to do with it."

"Does this mean that you're willing to do this again?" Clara yawned as she settled into her husband's shoulder.

"Maybe, if the whisky's any good." He listened for a response, a chuckle or a groan or anything, and was met by silence. Fast asleep again, the only sound she made was her soft breathing. John kissed his wife on the top of her head and pulled the blanket up to make sure she was covered before allowing himself to also slip into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During WWII, many children that were in effected nations grew up incredibly quick due to a heightened sense of responsibility from a variety of factors (contributing to the war effort, uprooting, being left alone due to either orphaning or a lack of regular childcare due to working parents, ever-looming threat of danger, etc). It would not surprise me if very few of the kids ever really got to believe in Santa/Father Christmas (by the 1940s, the two icons of differing origins had essentially merged). However, there is a key difference between Santa Claus the Catholic-saint-turned-mythological-figure and being the Santa that brings kids gifts. A good movie that addresses this concept is the Sony/Aardman feature Arthur Christmas, if you've never seen it.


	54. January 1948

Rain sluiced down the windowpane, sending a chill through John's bones. It was warmer than it had been at that time last year… that was for certain. That was merely a distraction though, something he had less time for now more than ever. He needed to get his new rough draft done and sketches outlined so that he could present it to Mr. Brown at the end of the month. It was a short turn-around from his previous book having been done in mid-November, but he was lucky to have his contract, he kept reminding himself, and he needed to stay on the task at hand.

…or, he would have a better time of this whole focusing thing if Clara hadn't kept on interrupting him.

"Would you like some tea?" she called out from the stairs, jarring John from his concentration.

"No thank you Clara," he replied, voice slightly raised so she could hear easily.

"Okay."

A while passed, allowing John to continue his work. It wasn't long though before the sound of the vacuum cleaner began thundering through the house. He rolled his chair over towards the door and closed it before scooting back. The vacuum rumbled and wheezed and eventually found its way up the stairs as Clara cleaned the rugs. Folding his arms on the desk, he groaned while the racket worked its way around the upper floor of the building.

Eventually the offending noise passed and things were quiet again. John picked his pencil back up and continued sketching images of a tiger on a passenger liner to Britain from India. Timmy, he had decided, was going to visit his pen pal in Scotland, where he would play about while comparing and contrasting their homelands. He had plenty of reference books on India, as well as newspaper clippings about the nation's more recent references in the global events, and wanted to make sure while both places were very different, they could be rather similar and were good places to be. With any luck he wouldn't need to scrap the plot for something completely different to please Mr. Brown, as his editor had done to him before.

Things began to run more smoothly after that for at least a little while. Timmy was able to make it to Scotland and was touring the city when John had to stop—he needed to look up some things about the Indian wildlife before moving the story to the glens and mountains. As he flipped through a book on the native flora of the subcontinent, the door opened and Clara popped in.

"Hey, how's it coming along?" she asked, walking up to him. She put her hands on his shoulders and began to rub as he examined the photos in the book.

"It's coming," he replied. "I don't want to be rude and get something wrong; those blokes were able to do what Scotland can't seem to manage and I am anything but looking down on them."

"Then maybe Timmy's adventures will help some little ones out there do the same," she said. "The pen pal still Donny?"

"Yeah; I figure Collette and Duncan won't mind." He flipped a page and frowned. Clara's presence was nice, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain focused. "I'm sorry, but could you please leave? It's hard work trying to piece this all together."

His wife scratched his scalp roughly and tugged on the side of his beard. "See if I offer you any tea later," she teased before leaving the room. She left the door wide open, causing John to grumble and stand, walking over to the door to shut it.

A moment of self-discussion later and he made his way over to the radio on the far corner of the room. He tuned it to a station that was dead in the middle of a symphony and left it on slightly louder than normal. They had gone through days like this before, where he was easily distracted and she ready to touch and play, and while they had the potential to end up enjoyable in the moment, he always seemed to hold some level of guilty regret when his workload began to pile.

Four rough sketches later and the radio cut out in the middle of an adagio. John turned around and saw Clara standing by the radio, looking a cross between confused and irritated.

" _I asked you_ what you wanted for lunch," she said sternly, hands on her hips. Her husband sighed and scratched his head.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you," he explained noncommittally.

"Of course you didn't hear me—you had this stupid thing turned up too loud."

"I need to _concentrate_ , Clara. Art is hard."

"…and so is lunch," she retorted. "Are sandwiches okay?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Then I need you to run to the bakery for me because we're out of bread."

John rolled back in his chair and frowned at his wife. " _Really_?"

"Yes, really. I told you that those thick-chunk slices you kept on hacking off the other day would backfire and when they did, that you'd have to go get the replacement loaf."

Oh yeah. She had warned him.

"Fine… where's the books?" he groaned as he slowly stood from his chair.

"In my purse in the bedroom," she answered. Clara exited the room before him and went back down the stairs.

John sighed and went into their bedroom, looking for the mysterious purse containing their ration books. The new loaf would have to go on his, most likely, though he'd have to check Clara's book as well to make sure they could squeeze it in that month. He finally found her purse and opened it up; there was never usually much to the contents of her purse and she hardly ever minded him checking in it for her. There was just a tube of lipstick, her wallet, a pen, and the worn paper sleeve their ration books sat in. He took the sleeve and slid the booklets out, one the yellow-tan color he was used to and the other… _green_.

A green ration book. The last time he held one was back when they were expecting Victoria. He quickly flipped through it and let his jaw grow slack as his suspicions were confirmed. It was a pregnant woman's ration book.

Clara was _pregnant_.

Now shaking, John slowly sat down on the bed as he tried to sort himself out. They were going to have a baby. He stared at the booklet in his hand—why hadn't she said anything before? Did she just forget how obvious it would be if he went into her purse? Impossible; Clara was cleverer than that. Despite this, John allowed a grin to creep across his face and he felt himself sigh in happiness.

It was another chance. Nothing would erase their previous loss, but the only way for them to move forward was to keep on living, and to keep on living was to keep on trying. Now as long as they were successful in bringing another life into the world, the pain and loss they went through would not have been experienced in vain.

"John? Are you alright?" Clara asked. He turned around and saw her leaning on the door frame, smiling softly at him. He scrambled over the bed and met her at the door, his eyes wide in excitement.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"This _was_ me telling you," she replied. She laughed as he leaned down to press their lips together and used the moment as an excuse to pick her up and twirl her around. They came to a crashing halt atop their bed, where John wrapped his arms around Clara's waist and rubbed his face into her midsection.

"Hello there my wee bairn," he murmured. "We're going to make sure you and your mam are healthy, alright? I don't care what you are as long as I get to hold you in my arms and raise you with my wife by my side. That's Dad's first order, you hear?"

"I'm sure they will be more than happy to oblige," Clara chuckled happily. She pet John's grey fluff of hair as they laid there, her husband growing increasingly closer to tears. "Instead of sandwiches, how does some soup sound?"

"It's sitting ready on the stove, isn't it?" His voice was raw and cracking as he attempted to hold himself together.

"It is."

"Thank you, Clara. I love you both."

"I love you too."


	55. March 1948

John looked at the crumpled scrap of paper as he let the car idle on the side of the road. The directions, given to him by a man in a shop only twenty minutes beforehand, were almost as intelligible as the accent they had been given in, considering the penmanship was bad and the street grid was worse. It was beginning to get dark, and he wanted to find where he needed to go before sundown necessitated further help via an embarrassing phone call. Putting the car into gear, he pulled back into the street and carefully went on his way.

Before long, he found the street he needed. He parked in front of a particular house and got out, walking up to the door. A few short knocks and he stood in silence, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Who is it?" called a voice from inside. The door opened and John found himself face-to-face with his rather surprised father-in-law. "Oh… why hello there. I didn't know you were coming. Is Clara…?"

"Would you believe that your darling daughter kicked me out?" John sighed, scratching the back of his neck. Dave paused, processing the information.

"…and if my darling daughter kicked you out, then why should I let you in?" he asked. John frowned and avoided eye contact.

"Would it help if I said that she should come around soon, and that my being here will make things a thousand times better?"

Dave nodded and stood aside, allowing his guest entry. "I was just putting on some tea if you go into the kitchen. You got a bag with you?"

"No… had to make a quick exit, hate to say," John said. He took off his shoes and followed Dave down the hall to the back of the house where the kitchen sat. Taking a seat, he waited patiently for his father-in-law to finish putting together tea before he said anything else. "Thanks for letting me in—I really appreciate it."

"My hospitality comes at a steep price," Dave replied, pouring John a cup of tea. The teapot he had was tiny, definitely only intended for one person as every remaining drop went into their cups. "You have to tell me why you and Clara are fighting."

"We're not… _fighting_ , per say…"

"Then why else would she kick you out—biscuit?" Dave opened the shortbread tin and placed it between them on the table. "I mean, speaking mate-to-mate, there are few other reasons as to why a wife tosses her husband out on his arse."

John took an experimental sip of his tea and pondered his answer. "If we're speaking mate-to-mate, I have to say it's just a misunderstanding and nothing more."

"What did you say?"

"Only that… well… she looked radiant."

"What…?" Dave blinked. He bit into his biscuit and arched a brow. "That sounds an awful lot like a compliment to me."

"It doesn't help that I haven't called her that in years," John explained. He downed a long gulp of tea, allowing the warmth to creep down his throat and pool in his stomach. "I haven't called her that… since she was pregnant."

The only sound that could be heard for a long while was the heavy _tock-tock-tock_ of the large clock in the hall. Dave put down his cup and folded his hands on the tabletop.

"When was this?" he asked, voice much too level to be anything but unsettling. John turned his gaze down into his tea and shivered.

"Back during the war—we waited to tell people until she showed, but…"

"Victoria never made it," Dave replied. He watched as his son-in-law's eyes went wide and his brows rose into his forehead.

"You knew…?" he marveled.

"I did; it wasn't that difficult to figure out," Dave said. He stood up and disappeared into the doorway to the front sitting room, returning moments later with a copy of _Kittens Come Home_. It was opened to the first page, which he read from as he sat back down. "' _For Ruby and Gwen, who can always come home—for Victoria, who nearly did_.' You told me all about the girls you hosted for those couple weeks, but nothing about a Victoria. Knowing the two of you, how _you_ don't have any kids from earlier, and considering how this looks like a dedication to a child lost during the war, I could only assume Victoria was supposed to be my granddaughter."

John stared at Dave guiltily, amazed at how composed the other man was. "We never meant to keep her from you… not forever, anyways. Not until the wound was better. It's not wholly better, and it probably never will be, but at least being in the open _is_ better overall."

"How old would she be now?" Dave asked.

"Four, in June," John replied without hesitation. "A friend of ours has a son that age and, well, they could have been schoolmates. Cousins, more like, since I don't really have family anymore and Clara only has you. They… they don't know though, our friends. No one really knows. We don't talk about her freely."

Closing the book and placing it on the table, Dave took a sip of tea and frowned. "So Clara reacting poorly to a compliment prompted you to make the drive all the way over here to confess about someone I already knew existed? It's got to be something more than that." He sat silently, waiting for John to reply in his own time.

"I… I said she was radiant because she honestly does look that way to me," John said, "and she looks radiant because, well, she's pregnant again. I think her shouting at me to leave was just her being scared, with the odd hormone mixed in."

"You mean it? Are you sure I'm going to be a granddad this time around? When?" Dave beamed. John nodded quickly in reply, running a hand through his hair nervously despite a greatened sense of ease.

"September. The doctor in Glasgow back then said that there was a greater chance we couldn't have kids now, but this entire time the doctor in London says she's fine and yet I can't help but worry. Dave… she's all I've got left."

"With a name like Smith? I highly doubt that…"

"Everyone I grew up close to is either dead or has been on non-speaking terms for so long I can't find out whether they're dead or not," John admitted. "The point is that Clara's it for me—you're my mate, but, it just isn't the same."

"I think I understand that better than you think," Dave said. He poured them both more tea and took another biscuit for himself. "Still, you have any questions about being a dad, just come to me. You're scared now, you both are, and that's natural. The trick is to not let it get the best of you, or else you'll burn through more petrol than you've got coupons for when a phone call will do."

John downed more of his tea, sighing. "This isn't the conversation to have over the phone, let alone without Clara here."

"Then why isn't she here now? Barring the obvious reasons."

"I promised I'd tell you—I promised back when I showed her the first test print." He gestured with his mug towards said book before taking another sip. "You and potential siblings: that was the price for springing that on her. It was a split-second decision to include Victoria in the dedication, but I don't regret it, not one bit."

"When do you think you'll talk to _them_?" Dave wondered. John shrugged.

"When they learn to read, probably, or when they figure out there's names in the front of the book they don't recognize. I don't even know if we're going to tell them that's my work until they're a bit older, now that I think about it." He blinked as tears escaped his eyes and began to stream down his cheeks. "I still can't believe it… I'm gonna be a _dad_."

"It's a great feeling, isn't it?" Dave chuckled. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to John, who took it thankfully and wiped off his face. "You're going to be a natural, I can tell."

"Yeah…?"

"Yeah." He was about to continue when the phone just outside the kitchen door rang, cutting him off. "Excuse me; let me get that." Dave stood up and walked over to the device, picking up the receiver and putting it to his ear. "Oswald."

" _Dad…?_ " It was Clara's voice on the other end, hoarse and choked with tears. Her dad gasped in an attempt to hide his chuckle.

"Clara? What is it, dear?" he asked.

" _I'm in trouble_ …" she admitted. " _I… I kicked John out for something stupid and now I can't find him. He's not at the pub or visiting the neighbors or at the park and the car is **gone** and_ …" She breathed jaggedly, betraying the fact she was still in the middle of her cry. " _Dad, I think I might have cocked it up_."

"You've been married nearly eight years, Clara. Usually by this time cock-ups are things like forgetting to pay a bill or accidentally having too much wine at a social event." He glanced at John sitting at the table and they exchanged a nod. "What did you do?"

The other end of the line was dead silent for a solid minute before Clara's voice squeaked out, " _I had a row at him when he gave me a compliment._ "

"Ah. That _is_ a pretty big cock-up. Now why would you do that?"

" _It scared me_."

"Did _he_ scare you? Was it something backhanded?"

" _No, no, no! It wasn't anything like that!_ " Clara cried into the phone almost a bit too loudly. She caught herself and tried to steady her voice again. " _It's just… it was something he hadn't said for a long time, and it reminded me of something else. I got into a state for nothing and now… now he's **gone**_."

"What, do you think he's not coming back?" he asked. At that, John stood up quickly and joined him by the phone, his brow knotted in worry.

" _I don't know. I said some pretty foul things to him_ ," she replied. " _We haven't fought like this in years and… he'd be within his right to leave_."

"That sounds a little harsh," Dave frowned. "Are you sure?"

" _Y-Yeah. If we are, you know, in trouble, can I come home?_ "

"Of course you can. You always can."

" _Thank you_." She paused for a moment and Dave could hear her swallow. " _Um… Dad?_ "

"Yes?"

" _Do you… do you still have my cot?_ "

"Now why would I still have your cot?" he asked. He took the pad of paper sitting by the phone and scribbled a note for John: _it's in the attic_. "Clara, is there something you're not telling me?"

"… _you're going to be really cross_."

"Well, if I'm going to be _really cross_ , then I better put the kettle on. Just a moment." He held out the handset towards John and whispered, "Take it."

"I can't… not _now_ …"

"Yes, now."

John gingerly took the handset from his father-in-law and slowly put the receiver to his ear. "Clara…?" He tensed up, immediately leaning on the wall for support. "No, Clara, don't cry! It's okay, it's okay… I'm not going anywhere."

Dave nodded and went back into the kitchen, where he indeed put more water on for tea. He tried his best not to listen, but he did anyways.

"No, I didn't tell him what you said; just call it payback for Round One. It takes more than a couple little words to betray my trust," John chuckled weakly. He paused and ran his free hand through his hair. "I came straight here. Now's a good a time as any, so I… I told your dad about Victoria… you know, as context." Another pause, shorter this time. "Pretty well, actually—he figured it out on his own based on the dedication and was just waiting for us to come forward. Your dad's a smart man, you know."

The man in question nearly laughed at the compliment, instead focusing his efforts on finding the teapot he kept in the cupboard for company. He found it only to catch John standing in the kitchen out of the corner of his eye, receiver still to his ear and the telephone base in his other hand.

"Hey, Dave, is it alright if I…?"

"Yes, of course. You're the father of my grandchildren, aren't you?"

John nodded in thanks before turning his attention back to the phone. "Yeah, he said I can stay the night." He paused, grimacing slightly. "You heard that? Sorry, but, I told him that too… again, as context. I couldn't exactly say you're being hysterical for no reason at all. You're pregnant, not a mental patient." Wandering back into the hall, he only returned after the phone was hung up.

"…and…?" Dave asked, taking another biscuit. He had turned off the kettle and abandoned his large teapot sitting filled with hot water, though no leaves. John just shook his head.

"Me being here made things only about nine hundred times better," he said. "She wanted to be the one to tell you about the new baby… so… I cocked it up."

"Well then, I propose that we go down to the local and grab a pint to celebrate your good fortune of having the best cock-up imaginable," Dave said. "My treat, and I can introduce you to my mates."

"…as your mate from out-of-town or your son-in-law?"

"Both sounds nice; c'mon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, historically speaking, is a little bit of a stretch, since the basic petrol ration for civilians was put on hold in mid-1947, only to be restored in June the following year. At around the same time petrol rations were brought back (to a third of the previous size!), it was mandated that some fuel have red dye put into it and only be sold to commercial vehicles, limiting what the average person could access. Not only could a private driver lose their license for a year if dyed petrol was found in their vehicle, the station that sold it to them could be shut down.
> 
> So, tl;dr: John should have taken the bus.


	56. June 1948

Stretching, John made his way back from the loo to his bedroom. It was dark and quiet in the house, as it was still early in the morning, and it made the sounds of the floorboards and doors creak something fierce. He climbed back into bed and wrapped his arms around Clara, pressing his nose into her hair and letting his hands settle on her stomach. Closing his eyes and sighing, he allowed himself to melt in the warmth of the bedding and synch to his wife's slow and steady breathing.

He only had his eyes closed for about five minutes when he heard a tiny voice ask "Are you up yet?" It was high-pitched and sounded almost an imitation of his own.

"No, I just got back in," he grumbled. John rolled over and pulled the blanket closer.

"But the sun is up!" The tiny voice had moved to the other side of the bed in reply, hitting the edge of the mattress. "Come on Daddy! It's time to get up!"

John's eyes snapped open and he sat upright in bed. He looked down to see a little girl standing at his bedside, still in her pajamas and hair a tangled mess. Looking to Clara's side of the bed, he found that there was none—he was alone in a single bed. It was their room, but it was not their bed and whoever the child was, she certainly was no one he'd ever met.

"Good, you are up," the little girl said. She climbed into the bed and sat down on the blankets in John's lap, shoving a brush and hair tie in his hands. "Can you do the braid Miss Jenny showed us yesterday at my party?"

"Um… which one was that?" he asked.

"The one that starts up here!" she said, pointing to the top of her head. The little girl turned around and sat very still, waiting for him to start. Carefully, John started to brush her wild brown hair, unsure of what else to do other than run his fingers through it.

' _What's going on?_ ' he thought. ' _Where's Clara? Who's this girl and why does she think I'm her dad?_ ' John looked away from the girl and back, only to see that her hair was now done in a French plait.

"Is it done? Thanks Daddy!" the little girl said. She kissed him on the cheek and took her brush back, rolling off the bed. "Auntie Collie's gonna be surprised that you can braid fancy now!"

"…Auntie Collie?" John paused for a moment, thinking. "Collette…?"

"Yeah! Don't tell me you _forgot_ _ **again**_ , Daddy," the girl sighed in exasperation. "Auntie Collie and Uncle Duncan and Donny are coming for the week and it's going to be so much _fun_. You remember, don't you?"

"Of… of course I remember," John lied. "They come in on the one o'clock, right?"

"Yup! This is going to be the best birthday _ever_!" the girl squealed before running out of the room.

Cautiously, John swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, confused. A photo of Clara was on the nightstand, smiling at him in silence. He picked it up and examined it carefully—it was a photo from their first Christmas, one of his favorites. She was putting up tinsel on the brush-bristle tree, looking at him over her shoulder with a giggle on her lips. It had been the first time she had set up an artificial tree, he remembered, and she could not stop laughing that entire day at it, finding the dyed bristles ridiculous.

He wordlessly put the frame down and went over to the wardrobe—only his clothes were there. It felt warm enough in the room, so a shirt and trousers was all he fished out. John dressed and went down the stairs; the walls were covered in drawings taped only a few feet high, but other than that most everything else was the same. Going into the kitchen, he found the girl kicking her feet and humming happily as she sat at the table with a bowl of cereal. She was dressed now, with a red and grey tartan dress and white tights. Looking up at him with her large, brown eyes and wide face, she giggled.

' _No… it can't be_ …' he thought, staring at her dimples. John sat down at the table and swallowed before choking out "Victoria?"

"Yes, Daddy?" she wondered. He froze, a chill running down his spine.

"It's… it's nothing," John lied. He reached forward and carefully wiped a spot of milk from her cheek as his heart began to shatter. "Just, you did a good job getting ready by yourself. You look very pretty today—very grown-up."

"I hope so!" she replied. "I have to be if I start school soon! You said yourself only big girls get to go to school!"

"…I did say that, didn't I?"

"Uh-huh!" Victoria then paused, her eyes growing even wider. "Oh no! I forgot to put away my crayons from last night!" She slid off the chair and ran out of the room, a blur of red and brown.

John sat back in his chair and breathed deeply; he had to be dreaming. He was dreaming, yeah, and everything was going to go back to normal as soon as he woke up. The alarm clock was going to ring any moment now, jarring him and his wife awake so he could hold her tight and kiss her until she pushed him away.

Minutes passed, and the alarm clock never rang.

Shakily, John went and made himself some toast and marmalade. It tasted real enough, which was less a comfort than it ought to have been. By the time he was done, Victoria had made her way back down the stairs and into the sitting room, where she was climbing up onto the couch with a bulky photo album. She laid down on her stomach as she browsed through it, not bothered by her father standing in the doorway staring.

"Let me know when we have to go to the station," she said as she turned a page. John felt a stinging in his eyes as he watched her, unsure of what to say.

"What do you have there?" he finally asked. The little girl shrugged.

"Mam."

"Then… may I look too…?"

Victoria sat up and nodded, dragging the book into her lap. John sat down next to her on the couch and wrapped one arm around her, taking the album in both his hands and allowing the girl to curl up into his side. The pages were filled with nothing but Clara—her laughing, her joking, and her with students at the school in Clydebank.

"Do you think she would have been my teacher?" Victoria asked quietly.

"Maybe, if she could," John replied. He turned the page and found other photos, though some had him in them. "Look—this is from when we lived in her office." He pointed at a picture Clara took of herself, with him scrunched up the best he could manage on the old couch in the background.

"It looks really small," she observed.

"That's right; it's a good thing we didn't have you then, or else you wouldn't've had a big enough place to take your first steps unless it was in the classroom." A turn of the page brought more photos, as well as a thought. "And this was in the flat. You remember the flat, don't you?"

"Kinda…" Victoria said. She leaned forward and nearly pressed her face to the laminate in her study of an image of Clara. "Mam was really pretty. Do I look like her?"

"Yes, you look a lot like her," he said. He gently kissed the top of her head and exhaled sadly. "Not all like her—you got some of my side in you too. A bit of your auntie, if I had to venture a guess."

Grabbing hold of the album, Victoria flipped to the very back, which was empty, and worked her way forwards until she found the last photo: Clara in the hospital holding an infant in her arms. She looked weak and exhausted, but so happy and full of joy that nothing in the world could bother her. The little girl stared critically at the photograph, trying to place it. "Why don't I remember this? This is me and Mam, right?"

"You weren't even half an hour old," John chuckled. "Babies don't know how to remember when they're just born. Sometimes people wish they did, but nothing can really change that. You know, not long after this I took you to see your granddad."

Victoria squeaked as she buried her face in her father's chest. He patted her on the back, wondering what was wrong, until a flash of memory hit him.

_He was standing with Dave in the hospital corridor, watching the new grandfather as he held the squirming bundle called Victoria. He was on leave from the military long enough to meet her, with a stunned grin on his face and a toy in his hand that in another life went to another child. Bopping the plush tiger's nose with hers, he agreed that her name, just decided on the week before by Mam and Dad, was perfect. She was going to be perfect. Everything was going to be just as it should._

_Then, something caught John's eye and his vision turned—people were running into the maternity ward. The corridor became blurred and silent as he tried to enter, curious at first but with a growing sense of panic. He wasn't allowed in, not while there was an emergency. Victoria cried hungrily, ignoring the fact the only two people with her were men with no milk. A nurse finally came with a bottle of infant formula, taking the baby as the extra people filed out of the ward. One solemnly called for John; he and Dave were finally allowed in to visit a lifeless husk with eyes already closed and limbs rigid from violently seizing up._

_They were allowed in to say goodbye._

Tears streamed down John's face as he sniffled in a failed attempt to keep them in. This was not fair—dreams never should hurt so much. His heart began to race as a harsh question settled over him: Was this the dream? He couldn't say he hated this, because he had a child at his side and no child of his sufficed as a nightmare, but with this pain attached… had he been dreaming this entire time? Had the alarm clock not rang because _this_ was the reality he lived in? Time worked differently in dreams, allowing an entire lifetime to occur within a nighttime… but was that what had happened?

He put down the album and drew his daughter in close, stroking her back as she curled into his embrace. It was faint, but John could remember picking her up from Collette's as a newborn after work. He could see as the girl toddled through an art museum in Glasgow, the one where he and Clara had spent the better part of her twenty-first birthday, and even recalled holding her still as the English countryside sped past their window on the train while they headed towards a new life in London. The memory of the birthday party they had the day before washed over him too, with a few of the neighborhood kids celebrating a day early in lieu of that morning, her birthday proper, being a Sunday. The entire time his daughter was there, but at the same time he was very alone.

"You're hugging too tight," Victoria mumbled. John shook his head and stroked her braid.

"No, I'm not letting you go Victoria Claire, not ever," he said, voice rough from tears. He bent down, pressing his face into her shoulder. "I can't lose anyone else."

"Why are you crying?" the girl asked, sounding more English than before. Fluid accents, great.

"I can't bring her back, but I can still be there for you," he said, the pause long enough to hold back a sob. In his arms, Victoria pushed against his chest, trying to escape his grasp.

"John, let go of me! Wake up!"

Gasping for breath, John shuddered awake in his dark bedroom. Clara was there, sitting up and looking rather shocked as she too had to breathe deeply. She glanced down at him, her eyes wide in confusion.

"What was that…?" she asked. Without a word John pulled her down and climbed on top of her. Round face, protruding stomach, curves that fit in his hands as if one had been made for the other… yes, it was his Clara. He leaned down and kissed his wife, taking her by surprise at the sudden intense affection. When they parted she shimmied away and out of bed, staring at him and breathing heavily.

"No, no, no, please don't go," he said, reaching out to grab her arm. "Please… I've had a fright."

"What sort of fright?"

"Victoria," he gulped. His eyes were large and sad and his eyebrows were raised in horror. "She was there… but you weren't. I'm sorry Clara, just…"

"Oh, John…" she sighed. Sitting back down on the bed, she let her husband latch on tightly, burying his face in her chest as he shuddered against the morning chill. She hugged him gently, scratching his scalp through his thick hair. "I'm here, no worries."

"I'm so sorry…"

"Shh… there's nothing to be sorry about…"

"…but it was so _real_ …"

"…and dreams often are," she said. Craning her neck, she looked over at the alarm clock and frowned. "It's half past five—what do you say we get an early start, hmm? Have a nice breakfast and take a walk before the rest of the world wakes up?"

John nodded against her chest, making a sort of strained, croaking noise that Clara took as agreement. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and rubbed his back before getting up again, careful to make sure he did not blindly reach for her as she stood. They both began to dress for the day, with John stealing glances from across the room. Once his clothes were on, he went over to Clara and gave her a kiss, kneeling down and pressing his forehead to her stomach afterwards.

"Learn from your sister, please," he told the baby, voice raspy and low. "No one can truly replace anyone, and the only thing that's worse is even needing the thought." He kissed his wife's stomach and stood upright, forcing a smile to his lips. "How about if I make breakfast today?

"Sounds like a plan I can live with," Clara nodded. She cradled John's cheek with a hand before leading him out of the bedroom and towards the stairs. Although it was important to remember, staying too focused on the past would only get in the way of the future.


	57. July 1948

"Your parents," John said plainly as he rolled some paint onto the wall. Clara looked over her shoulder at him and blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Let's name the baby after your parents, no matter if we get a boy or a girl," he replied. He leaned the paint roller against a still-white part of the wall and stood back, checking to make sure he was covering the surface evenly with the soft, pale orange. "David and Elena, right? Those are good names."

"What about _your_ family?" she asked. "Your parents count for something too."

"Dad was also a John Smith, like many of the other men in his family," he explained. "I don't know if I could name my firstborn after Uncle Jaime, or Mam for that matter, and that's not even considering girls' names."

"John, your mum was a girl—girls usually have girls' names."

He laughed at that, shaking his head. John's eyes went far-off and distant, recalling a story long-told. "Granddad McCrimmon was so convinced he was going to have a second son that he filed the birth as soon as Granny went into labor. Oswin Idris McCrimmon-Smith was never exactly what people expected of her."

"What did people expect of her?" Clara paused her minute detailing of the edge of the door frame to look over at John, who shrugged and continued painting.

"They expected a boy, for one. When that was tossed out the window they expected a little lady. For growing up in the middle of the reign of Queen Victoria my mam was _anything_ but a prim and proper lady."

"Oh really now?" she chuckled. "What kind of a lady was she?"

"One who hung all over her husband in public and always looked like she was halfway put-together but was so on-purpose. She was the one who taught me how to climb trees and tinker and paint and told me I was clever." John shook his head, chuckling to himself. "No one understood what Johnny saw in Ozzie, or what Ozzie saw in Johnny, but it apparently was enough to stay together."

"I take it your dad was not as carefree as your mum?"

"Dad was the kind of man that would have been confused at instant food in rations and would tell you to stop playing with a penlight if you waved it around too much for his liking. He was more flexible than I sometimes give him credit for, but overall he was a hard-faced man that made hard decisions and that carried over to home on occasion."

Clara thought for a moment—it was wise to tread lightly, since getting John to talk about his parents at such a length was a feat in of itself. "I thought your Dad had Will's job?"

"He did, but being foreman isn't just about ordering people around while keeping secrets for them. There are a lot of split-second decisions you have to make so that the floor runs smoothly. Dad actually wanted me to work my way up into taking his place, but that didn't happen."

"…and I'm glad. You would have been miserable and grey before I came into the picture."

"I thought that didn't matter to you," John smirked, flashing his wife some teeth. He put some more paint on the roller and continued covering the walls. "Still… Elena… Sarah… Jane… there you go: Elena Jane."

"Where did Sarah and Jane come from?" Clara asked. She blinked at her husband, his back to her.

"Oh, just some old family names, from my dad's side," he replied. "You know how old family names can be, though with mine you might as well be talking ancient history."

"Stop that," she giggled. "You sure Jane's _just_ an old family name and not trying to get in a John anyways?"

"I'm sure," he said. "My children do _not_ get named after me, and that's final. Members of my family, maybe, but I'm too plain."

"You're not plain," Clara sighed. "You're the farthest thing from plain—if _you're_ plain, then what does that make me?" She balled up her hands and rested her fists on her hips. "There may not be anything special about your name, but you are one of the most interesting people I've ever met and I wouldn't have married you otherwise. You're the father of my child and you deserve a chance at a namesake just as everyone else."

John's face fell into a frown and he rested the paint roller up against a dry bit of the wall before turning around to look at her. "Clara, I'm serious. I don't want a John or Jonathan; I don't want a Joan or a Jane that's for me. I wouldn't even be comfortable with an Ian, to be honest."

"Then what _are_ you comfortable with?" Clara asked. She watched as indecision flickered across his face. "Go on, tell me, if we had this baby tomorrow and I was too high on morphine to be of any use, what would you name them?"

He thought for a moment. "Elena Jane, and we'll call her Ellie."

"…and if we had a boy?"

"I don't know… Oswald? Oswald David, and he can be the next Ozzie in the line."

"I didn't even like my maiden name as my _surname_ ," Clara moaned. "Why would I want to saddle a son with that as his _given_ name? No, never—you're getting a John before you get an Oswald."

"…and now you know where I'm coming from," he replied, a little too sharply for his wife's liking.

"No, I don't, because you seem to be incredibly defensive about your _name_ , which isn't even something we have to recreate to the letter." She was furrowing her brow in exasperation at his lack of give in the conversation. "If I want a John or a Joan the hospital is going to listen to _me_ , you know that, yeah?"

Rolling his eyes and letting out an annoying grunt, John stormed from the room and made his way to the stairs. Clara put her paintbrush down and slowly followed, displeased in how her gait was becoming increasingly awkward as the baby grew. She found her husband sitting at the table in the kitchen, glaring angrily at their sugar pot.

"Talk to me," she said as she sat down across from him. "There's something up here and you can't lie to me and say there isn't. What father honestly doesn't want to pass on his name to his child somehow?"

John lifted his gaze and looked her in the eyes. "Wissforn."

"What…? That was the street we lived on…"

"Yeah, and there were three John Smiths in my level," he retorted. "That's _three_ John Smiths from the same town, the same age, and our dads all did the same thing. There were other Johns in our level and others, but the three of us were the ones that caused confusion. By the end of my first month of school I wasn't John Smith anymore, but Wissforn—I didn't even _live_ in Granny's house then, but I stayed there sometimes, so the other John that lived on my street became Walters, and then the third lived on Galloway." He looked away, frowning at the kitchen floor. "I don't want to pass that on. Smith is bad enough, but _John_ Smith is just asking for trouble."

Clara sighed and folded her hands atop the table. "That was a different time."

"I'm not allowed to write under my real name, need I remind you."

"…and you could have changed your name to Oswald eight years ago," she said. "Don't act the martyr because your name is more common than you'd like, because something tells me that out of the three of you, Wissforn was the John Smith that ended up the happiest." He stayed silent, refusing to respond. "Well…?" Clara waited patiently, knowing it was merely a matter of time.

"Galloway's got a foot in the grave from a pickled liver and too many dirty brawls, and Walters has been on the bottom of the North Sea for over thirty years, so yeah," he replied softly. "That doesn't change my opinion."

"But it should show you that just because you had the same name as two of your classmates, that doesn't mean you were all doomed." She reached across the table and gently put her hand on one of his. "You made it this far, despite war and all that time as a bachelor, and I think you deserve the chance to have a namesake. I'm sure Walters's family honored him, and Galloway got more honor than he deserved. Am I right?" He nodded, though barely. "Then I want to honor _you_."

"I'm honored enough just by being your husband and your child's father," John said, squeezing her hand. "Namesakes are overrated; as long as we're a family, then I'm satisfied."

"We'll be a family, don't you worry about that," Clara sighed. She gave her husband a soft smile in an attempt to be reassuring. "Now, can we put this aside for now and finish off the nursery before the paint dries? Something tells me this isn't the conversation to have without a pot of tea and the couch to cuddle on."

"Agreed." They both stood and met for a kiss, John leaning down and caressing Clara's curves, with her draping her arms around his shoulders. "Oswald John Smith—how about that?"

"No," was her giggling reply. " _Never_." They both laughed as they made their way back up the stairs. There was plenty of time to debate ahead of them and the last thing that needed to happen was to have their child's name spoil the mood.


	58. 25 September 1948

John bounced his leg nervously as he sat during the wee hours of the morning in the waiting room with two other expectant fathers. They were both young, probably half his age. While the one was clearly waiting on his firstborn, the other one already had a small girl with him, about six or seven, who had decided to sleep in his lap. Seeing them reminded him of Gwen and Ruby and how the girls would both snuggle up into him as he read their favorite stories. He sighed and licked his lips; if they stayed with them all these years, they'd both be teenagers by now.

The hours passed. The man with the daughter was called—another girl—and eventually the other man told his wife had too given birth to a girl. John sat alone, staring at the walls and flipping through ten-year-old tabloids over and over again. He was growing restless, having not seen his wife since they had kissed good-luck that morning (now the previous morning), when she had been admitted to induce labor. Pacing and finding new ways to sit in the chair, he tried to kill time until finally the door opened and the nurse's angelic voice broke the silence.

"John Smith?"

"Y-Yes!" he stammered, dropping his magazine on the floor as he scrambled to his feet. The nurse looked at him and paused for a moment, quickly piecing together how to phrase her question.

"Husband of Clara?"

"Yes! She's okay, right? The baby…?"

"Mother and son are both healthy and strong," the nurse sighed. She saw the look of bewilderment on John's face and chuckled. "Are you okay, Mr. Smith?"

"I… yeah…" he replied airily. He chewed his lips as he looked around the room. Mother and son. His wife and their child. They were fine. They were healthy.

They were _alive_.

"Would you like to see them?" the nurse asked. His face lit up.

"I can…?"

"They're resting just now, but I think they can make an exception for Dad," the nurse said. She allowed John beyond the door and led him down the corridor to a large ward. Halfway down the room the nurse pulled back a curtain and silently presented John the bed where Clara was sleeping peacefully. She was still soaked in sweat and her hair gone every which way, yet she had a blissful expression on her face as she slept with her arm stretched out towards the cot next to her bed.

John approached the cot and his chest swelled as he saw the child inside. He was not asleep like his mother, but instead wiggled and squirmed and smacked at Clara's hand draped over the side of his cot. Laughing weakly, the new father caught the boy's tiny fist with a finger. The infant looked up at him and gurgled.

"Hello, son," he chuckled. "Now, now, no hitting Mam. That's not allowed." He cautiously slid his hands underneath the boy and lifted him up, careful to not let his neck bend.

The baby wriggled and flailed and tried his best to escape to no avail. He let out a croaking noise as John ran a finger over his wispy brown hair and his cheeks that were red from crying. After blindly groping about, the boy finally grabbed hold of John's finger and stuck it in his mouth in an attempt to feed.

"How are my boys doing?" Clara asked sleepily. John turned towards his wife; he knew she was smiling though it was difficult to tell as he blinked through tears.

"He's beautiful, dearest," he replied. His voice was cracking and already raw from holding back what tears he could. "I'm so glad to have you both."

"I don't know… David already seems like he's trying to be difficult," she laughed. "With the way he didn't want to come out, I'd have to say I never would have dealt with that when I was younger."

"Davey… let's call him Davey for now," John said. He leaned down and kissed Clara's lips. "Maybe when he's older he'll like David."

"Dad's going to be cross, you know that, right?"

"Let him be—I though we went over how there's too many Johns in my family as it is," he smirked. He looked back down at Davey and exhaled heavily. The boy was beginning to calm down and had almost fallen asleep in his father's arm.

He was finally a father.

After all those years of loneliness and doubt, watching his mates raising their children and young grandchildren all around him, after a war that kept him and his miracle wife from trying right away, after watching over others' children, after his hopes had been raised then dashed and buried before birth… he was finally holding a child that he could finally call his own. Clara's child… one they could raise together.

John did the only thing he could think to do and held his son close as he attempted to not cry.

"Welcome to the world, David James Smith," he croaked instead. "Dad's going to do everything in his power to make sure you get off on the right foot. You are going to be so loved and cared for that you'll be the envy of all your mates."

* * *

A couple days passed and once the doctors deemed both Clara and Davey safe to go home, John led them to the car and proudly drove them back to Grynden Street. Many of the neighborhood mothers (and Strax, oddly enough) popped in that afternoon to get their first peek at the newest Smith, offering the parents all sorts of advice and volunteering their older children as sitters. By the time the last well-wisher had to return home to put supper on the table it was all Clara could do to sink into an armchair and fall asleep for the half an hour it took for her son to become hungry enough to cry again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she called out wearily as she scaled the staircase. Davey only stopped his wailing once he was feeding. Pause, spit-up, eat some more; eventually he was satiated and Clara was able to put him down to change out his nappy.

After putting the sleepy infant back in his cot and his soiled nappy in the hamper, the new mother trudged down towards the kitchen and the beautiful smell of food being cooked. John decided to show off his culinary expertise and was heating up a tin of beans to go with the Spam sandwiches he fried up—simple, filling, and not much work that would take him away from being help elsewhere if needed.

"How's it going?" he asked as he slid the sandwiches onto their plates. Clara sat back in her chair and groaned.

"All it takes is some getting used to," she admitted. Once the beans were served and John was sitting down she began to eat. "Is this going to be a common occurrence?"

"Is what?" he asked, brows lifting in confusion.

"Not having to make dinner," she smirked. "Looks like I trained you fairly well."

John let out a small laugh before turning back to his beans. "You just went through a lot, and caring for a child full-time while keeping house is a tougher job than it looks. My services are yours while we're adjusting to the new addition."

"Then may I stay pregnant and never have to make dinner as long as I'm fertile," Clara said, lifting up her water glass. He shook his head, but clinked his glass with hers in a toast anyways.

The rest of dinner and a quick cleanup later, John took his wife by the hands and led her to the sitting room to rest as they awaited the next summons from the nursery. He turned on the radio and found some music, which they slowly danced to on the rug. Every so often there would be a break, where Clara slipped off and tended to their child's needs, only to return to a husband stretched out on the couch and silently requesting a cuddle. She'd comply, snuggling atop his chest, and eventually work him back to his feet before being called away again. This process repeated itself until late that night when they finally decided it was time to sleep.

Both aware neither of them would be in bed for long, they went upstairs to change into their night things and settle in underneath the bedding. Clara quickly fell asleep only to, what felt like moments later, snap her eyes open and find that John was no longer in bed.

"John…? John, where are you?" she whispered. Looking at the alarm clock revealed that hours had passed, much more than expected. She looked around the room and, after seeing no light filtering in from underneath the bathroom door, saw that the door for their room was left open a slight crack. Creeping out of bed, she padded her way into the hall and over to Davey's room. Neither her husband nor her son was there, which made her groan as she realized she needed to hunt them down.

From the top of the stairs, Clara could hear John fumbling around down in the kitchen. After only descending two steps, she sat and listened to him moving about and talking to Davey.

"Hey, just a wee bit longer, alright lad?" he chuckled, unseen. The baby made a small noise in response, not sounding very pleased. "No, no, no… I know you prefer Mam's milk, but she's sleeping now. Didn't you know—she had to go through a lot of work bringing you into this world, and she needs her rest. Of all people, you should know that better than most." He then began to hum, Davey quiet as could be.

' _A natural_ ,' Clara smirked. She saw a shadow from the hall leading to the kitchen flit across the floor, showing her husband as he cared for their child. The infant formula powder that Mrs. Yates gave them had been useful sooner than expected. Standing, she made to go back to bed when suddenly a sound cut through the night and made her freeze in place.

John was singing.

She had heard him sing before, of course—during Hogmanay and when he was feeling particularly frisky while playing certain records—but this… this was something new. The words were completely foreign to Clara, sounding old and ancient, low and guttural, and oddly soothing. She descended the stairs and silently walked towards the kitchen. There was John, gently bouncing Davey as he fed, lullaby softly crooning him to complacency. He glanced up and smiled at her, finishing up the song as he put the half-finished bottle down on the table and burped their son.

"You should be sleeping," he said, nestling Davey back down to finish off the bottle. Clara walked up to him and perched up on her toes to give him a kiss.

"I heard this odd noise and couldn't help but investigate," she replied. "What was that?"

"Gaelic," John explained. He looked down at Davey, watching him suck down his milk with increasing sleepiness. "Dad used to sing it to us, when we were small. He and Uncle Jaime knew a few songs; once you'd get the two of them going and… better than going to concerts in the park, they were."

Clara laced her fingers together and placed her hands up on his shoulder, leaning into his arm as she too kept her eyes on Davey. "What does it mean?"

"I knew once, when I was younger, but not anymore," he said wistfully. "Maybe in my spare time I can find out again, and then our tiny wee rascal can learn, so he can sing it to his children."

"You never know—Granddad might still have use of his voice by then," she assured. She pulled his face down and kissed him again. "See you back in bed?"

"I plan on it," he grinned. Clara tickled Davey's cheek and left her boys to their own devices, yawning sleepily as she went back up the stairs. She settled down in bed again and was nearly asleep when she felt the mattress shift and John's arms wrap around her once more.


	59. November 1948

Breakfast was quiet as John and Clara enjoyed the momentary silence. The people who had warned them about Davey needing constant attention had not been joking—the boy needed feeding almost every third hour on the spot, with nappy changes and fussiness sprinkled throughout. Now, after nearly two whole months, they were able to hear nothing but the scrape of utensils on plates. They weren't even dressed properly, with Clara still in only her nightshirt and John being lucky to have gotten as far as his trousers.

"This is nice," she smiled. She felt her husband's foot brush up against her ankle under the table and chuckled. "How long do you think until we can have the whole night to ourselves again?"

"Not soon enough," John replied. He smirked through his tea as he received an unimpressed look. "It hasn't been easy sharing my wife with someone at all hours."

Clara rolled her eyes and stood up as she began to clear the table. "I never took you as the jealous type, John."

"Not jealous, just hungry."

"You just finished breakfast—don't tell me you're still hungry," she frowned. The frown vanished as John looked up at her and caressed a hip. "Oh, that sort of hungry." She giggled as he pulled her down and began playfully nipping at her neck, completely ignoring the fact she had a plate in each hand.

"An astute observation, my dear," he grinned into her shoulder. He ran his hands over her hips and thighs while he kissed up her neck and across her jaw. He paused for a moment and breathed deeply; she smelled of browning margarine and reconstituted eggs, with underlying hints of talcum and cologne. Clara turned her head and lightly kissed his temple, settling her nose into his hair as she took in the scent of art supplies that still clung to him from the day before.

Seconds later and she dropped the plates and stood up, turning around to better face her husband as she kissed him roughly and without much thought. She didn't need to think about it—as much as John joked about being starved, she was just as hungry due to their strict diet of cuddling over the past few months. John picked her up as he stood, setting her down on the tabletop and completely ignoring the crash of other dishes as they upset them. He used his chair for extra support as he positioned himself above Clara and slid a knee between her legs. She loosened his belt and yanked urgently at his trousers; there was nothing either of them wanted more at that very moment.

John moaned into her mouth as she latched onto his hips, timing her thrusts with his. He leaned forward as he kissed her, his entire body completely on the table now, resting his elbows just above her shoulders to hold the both of them steady. Clara winced slightly at first but urged John to continue on. She was sore from the same reason she was no longer as tight around him as she used to be and why they had to paint one of the guest rooms a pale orange, nothing more.

Thankfully they both reached their breaking points at nearly the same time, with him throwing his head back and groaning only seconds before she let out a euphoric gasp. John almost collapsed on the table, laughing at how out of form he felt. Clara laughed too, running her hand along the side of his face. They kissed again, except this time slower and more deliberate.

After no more than a minute, a sharp croaking sound cut through the air. They stopped kissing and looked at one another without pulling away.

"Well, there goes that," Clara sighed. She shuddered and sat up, examining the twinned wet spots on her nightshirt. "I guess it's feeding time."

"I'll clean up," John offered. He looked at the floor as she dodged the broken shards of plate and what had been their good sugar pot. One of the drinking glasses had ended up on the floor too, though thankfully it had only cracked and hadn't shattered completely. John began to carefully pick up the larger ceramic pieces before he started sweeping the smaller fragments and the ruined sugar together. He was almost done by the time Clara came back downstairs, Davey at her breast and a clean nightshirt hastily thrown on.

"So what's the damage?" she asked, looking around the floor. "We lost the plates, but what else?"

"We're going to have bitter tea for a while, but other than that we're safe. Whoever built the table really knows his stuff." He bent down and pecked his wife on the lips with a smile. "Let's not make a habit of this, okay?"

"I don't know, I think I could get used to this. It more reminded me of the first time we had sex than anything else, personally, and that's something I could easily get used to," she chuckled. "Ah… I almost had you right there on the wall of the kitchen."

"…and you would have too had dinner been a salad and sandwiches instead of a roast and potatoes—it was _hot_ in there."

Clara snuck in a grab at her husband's rear before leaving the kitchen to change Davey's nappy. She didn't believe the excuse back then and she certainly didn't believe it now. "You'll know what that means one day, don't you worry," she whispered to their son as she took him back up the stairs. "It might take a while, but one day you will know how truly impossible your parents are and were, and I can only hope the same will happen for you."

Davey gurgled in irritation as they reached the top of the stairs. "Oh, no, I mean a _love_ like ours. Really, you do have a lot to learn of the world," his mother smirked. She walked into the nursery and placed him down on the changing table so that she could switch out his nappy. "Let me tell you a little something about love, David: you never know when you're going to run into it, and when you do, sometimes it's in a rather unexpected place. It may seem odd, or even unnatural, but you have to accept it, and when you do, I can assure you that you will be very, _very_ happy."

With a fresh nappy and a full belly, Davey fell asleep contently as Clara finished fastening his clothes back on. She placed him back down in his cot, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead. After humming a few bars of a tune she left, allowing him to sleep the remainder of the morning away.


	60. December 1948

It was John's turn to watch Davey.

Clara had a doctor's appointment, routine and nothing to worry about. She told John she'd be back in time to put dinner on the table and to let the baby cry if he didn't stop after a fresh nappy and a bottle. He agreed and she left him with a kiss and a vote of confidence that everything was going to be fine.

After an hour, maybe two, John set down his pencil as he heard his son crying in the room just down the hall. He left his thumbnail sketches to see to his son, whose nappy was dry and clean. If it wasn't a changing he needed… John carefully picked up the baby and nestled him in the crook of his left arm as he walked down the stairs and over towards the kitchen. Clara had left a couple premade bottles in the refrigerator for them, so he took one out and offered it to Davey, who began to suck the milk down with gusto.

"There you are, my lad," he chuckled. "Tuck in now… got to grow big and strong for when we go visit your granddad. Have to impress the English; show him what we Scotsmen are made of."

John could have sworn the boy gave him a dirty look.

Two burpings and a whole bottle later, John was in his armchair in the sitting room with his son comfortably laying along his arm. He looked at the baby and smiled; he seemed to sleep an inordinate amount for someone so tiny. John yawned himself and settled himself into his chair—a short cat nap could not hurt. He closed his eyes and sighed, child wriggling passively to remind him of his presence.

He had barely begun to relax when the front door open and shut with more force than it was usually given. Standing up, he investigated the noise with Davey sleeping soundly in his grasp. Leaning up against the door was his wife, almost steeling herself against the surface.

"So, how'd it go?" he asked. Clara looked at her husband and exhaled contently.

"Exactly how I thought it'd go," she said. "How are my boys doing? Behaving, I hope?"

"Oh, you know us—can't get into a lick of trouble even if we tried," John laughed. He bent down to kiss her and handed off their baby to her. "Just a bottle, no nappy."

"Good; I'll get him ready for tonight then."

John froze, bent over in half as Clara walked away to the staircase. "Tonight? What's tonight?"

"You should know, Father Christmas—it's been in your diary since October."

"Wait, that's tonight? I thought we did it on a Friday last year." John scratched his beard as he followed his wife up the stairs.

"Yes, and the Friday before Christmas this year is Christmas _Eve_ , so we had to juggle the date," Clara said, very matter-of-factly. "The suit's in my wardrobe, and I'll make dinner once we get home."

"I wouldn't be doing this if Strax wasn't the only alternative," John mentioned, voice raised to be heard properly as they veered off into different rooms. He took the hired red suit out of Clara's wardrobe and frowned at it. "He's never watching over Davey, not even when he's older."

"What about Vastra? Or Jenny?"

"Miss Trask and Miss Flint, yes." He began to pull the suit on, ignoring the vague smell of mothballs, and muttered quietly to himself, "They'd agree with me though. Hell, I'd trust the two of them to watch over _me_ if I went bananas."

"What was that?" Clara asked, still in the nursery.

"Just thinking aloud," John replied, raising his voice again. He stayed silent as he finished pulling together his outfit. Frowning at himself in the mirror, he still looked the same overgrown blemish as he did the year prior. He was just smoothing out the coat underneath the belt when Clara came in, holding Davey—now wide awake and dressed in warm footed pajamas of red and green.

"Look who's there," she cooed to the boy. "It's Dad, dressed like Santa!" John frowned, taking his son so Clara could change.

"Davey's not going to grow up thinking I'm Father Christmas, is he?" he asked, bouncing him gently. "It's bad enough the neighborhood kids don't even need this."

"No he won't and yes they do," she insisted as she let her skirt drop to the floor and shrugged out of her blouse. "At least, he won't think you're the _real_ Santa. Give the kid some credit."

"It's bad enough my bairn is at risk for hauntings and developing overblown theatrics," John frowned, allowing the boy to gnaw on his fingertip. "Do we need to confuse the poor lad as well?"

"I think that growing up thinking your Dad's important enough to help Santa is enough of a thrill to make any bit of confusion worth it in the end," Clara chuckled. She slipped into the dress and turned her back to John, who wordlessly zipped the back up with one hand. "Besides, why would Uncle Jaime haunt any _bairn_ that carries his name?"

"To be thorough," he explained. John bent down and kissed his wife's neck before she went to put her hair up in a bun. "Not arguing the theatrics?"

"If Davey takes up the stage, then I know _precisely_ where he picked it up from," she smirked. She watched as John slunk from the room while she took her time on her hair.

Once her bun was steady and her cap tied on, Clara went to go investigate where bairn and beau had run off to. She eventually found them in the sitting room, beau laying down asleep with their bairn laying on his stomach, one hand keeping the boy in place. Hurrying back to her bedroom, Clara found the camera and brought it back down, taking a quick shot for the album. When neither subject moved, she took another to be safe, and sat down with a book until the sun sank down behind the houses.

"Santa, time to deliver the presents," she said as she put the book down. Clara crossed the sitting room and plucked their son from his father's grasp, jolting him awake. He relaxed when he saw her standing over him, nestling Davey in her arms.

"Already?" he asked, stretching the sleep from his limbs.

"It's almost sunset—go get your cap and the sack of things is in the front hall cupboard," she said. Santa did as he was told, sneaking in a feel of Mrs. Claus's rear on the way. Clara shoved him off and laughed—that was going that have to wait until later. She found a blanket to use as a shawl and pulled the hood to Davey's pajamas up so only his face was visible. It was curved and had tiny pointed ears sewn to the sides.

"Oh no… don't tell me you're making him wear the hood up," John groaned as he came back into the sitting room, cap on his head and sack thrown over his shoulder. "It's bad enough the boy's got to deal with the rest of it…"

"It's _cute_ ," she insisted. She went into the front hall and found her shoes, which she slipped on with ease.

"He looks like some little girl's dolly."

"Okay, tell you what?" She shifted her weight on her hips as she watched John put his boots on while leaning against the wall. "No more complaints about Davey's pajamas, _and_ you don't sass the other kids, and next year you can be in charge of what he wears."

"…but they started it," he whined. Clara held up a finger to silence him.

"That's the terms. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed," John grumbled. "It will feel good to chuck that thing in the charity shop bin."

"I said you could be in charge of what _Davey_ wears next year, not anyone else. Honestly, it may not be that cold, but I am not carrying a naked infant in the middle of December," Clara sighed. She opened the front door and walked out before he could respond. Within moments, he joined her on the pavement, eyes wide and brows arched high.

"A… a naked infant? What does that…?"

"What do you think it sounds like?" she replied. "Two in a row for the Smiths—if we keep this up, I'll be a maternity ward regular."

"Then, is that what the appointment was today?" he asked. She nodded, taking his arm with her free hand.

"Surprised even the doctor—closest set of pregnancies he's ever seen," she said, pulling him along towards the dead end. "So what do you say? The cupboard at the department store or the kitchen table?"

"Let's remember them both and change the story every so often; keep the kids guessing," John smirked. He was grinning ear-to-ear, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hopefully Grace Brothers' will still be in business by then…"

"No, you are _not_ bringing them to see the cupboard," Clara hissed. "Honestly John, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Currently? I'm about to be attacked by twelve wee pudding-brains. Overall? Nothing, as long as I've got my wife and kids." He sighed contently, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her lips before letting go to approach the group of children huddled underneath the dead end's tree. "Kids… plural… really?"

"Truly," she nodded, slipping her hand from his arm and giving him an encouraging shove towards the children. He looked back at her as he walked, grin still prevailing and crooked, unable to take his eyes off her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an old wives' tale that's been around longer than any of us can fathom that says that when a woman is nursing, they cannot get pregnant, or that it's more difficult for her to do so. That is a big ol' lie, as demonstrated here by John and Clara.


	61. February 1949

It was nearing late afternoon as Dave heard a familiar sound pull up in front of his house and shift into park. He looked out the front sitting room window and saw the oft-malfunctioning contraption that John had the audacity to refer to as a car sitting on the street. With son-in-law already under the bonnet, no doubt cursing up a storm, daughter and grandson came out of the passenger side and began to approach the house. Dave walked out of the sitting room and through the hall to the front door, which he opened just as Clara was getting ready to knock.

"There you are!" he grinned, opening the door wide and letting her step in. "I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you, considering you originally said lunchtime. Was traffic that bad?" Clara gave her father a kiss on the cheek and sighed wearily.

"It was dreadful," she replied. "We broke down twice and Davey kept on crying for most of the trip. He only fell asleep about five minutes ago."

"I put your old cot upstairs in your room," he explained. "Lie him down and we can have a proper visit later. I'll go get your bags." His daughter agreed and began to walk over to the staircase, allowing him to slip out the front door and make his way over towards the car.

As Dave approached, he didn't hear anything too callous coming from the bonnet, though decided to proceed with caution anyway. He got to the front of the car and bent in half, trying to see underneath. "John?"

"Hey," John grunted sourly. It was clear he was not in a talking mood, something the other man couldn't blame him for.

"Bags?" It was better to communicate in as few syllables as possible.

"Boot; leave them on the driver's seat." John dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, which his father-in-law wordlessly took and left him to his own devices. After taking the two suitcases out of the boot and leaving the keys where instructed, Dave took the bags into the house and hauled them up the stairs. He found Clara in her old room, knelt down next to her son as he slept away in the cot.

"Here you are," he said, putting the bag at the foot of the bed. He sat down next to his daughter and put an arm around her shoulders. They sat there quietly, watching the baby sleep.

"Nothing's been changed," Clara said eventually. She looked over at her dad, whose gaze was still locked on the infant. "You said that you'd turn it into another guest room, or a study, but you kept everything."

"Sometimes I walk in here and I can remember how lucky I am," he shrugged. "I know you're not a little girl anymore and you're never going to need this room aside from visits, but it reminds me about how much was allowed to _not_ change—your house in Clydebank no longer exists and your house in London is only a couple years old. There are accounts at work whose owners had to rebuild three, four times, while around here, we were barely touched. I still wish you could have moved back here for a while."

"…and where would John and I have worked? The Promenade?" she laughed. Clara rested her head on her father's shoulder and allowed her laugh to turn into a chuckle. "No… I wouldn't trade any of it, even the bad times."

"You _are_ your mother's daughter," Dave said. He exhaled softly and let go of Clara, leaning forward to get a better look at his grandson. Bringing a hand up and gently tickling Davey's cheek with a finger, he tried to ignore the wet stinging that was welling up in his eyes. "I know I keep on saying it, but he's beautiful, sweetie. Your mum would be so proud right now."

"Thanks, Dad." She paused, allowing the moment to pass, before adding "Though, I think the name could use some work."

"Oh really now?"

"Yes; he does nothing but complain and I think it's something in the name," she grinned. She stood up and helped give her father a hand getting to his feet so they could go down the stairs and meet John as he walked in the front door. Grease was smeared on his face and his jumper and shirt were jammed up past the elbows.

"I think I fixed it," he grumbled, kicking the door shut behind him. Clara smirked and pulled him down for a kiss, making him blush at the contact.

"Then it's a good thing you're mechanically inclined or we'd never get anywhere, now would we?"

"No…" he muttered. He quietly inquired as to where he could wash up and retreated to the downstairs toilet. Clara and Dave went to the back of the house and sat down in the kitchen as they waited for the kettle to boil.

After some idle chatter (the weather, the traffic, how little the neighborhood had changed) and John returning to Clara's side (washed and with his sleeves in their proper place), the water had finally decided it wanted to boil and the adults were having tea. Clara nearly melted into her cup, privately floating into a reverie of days long past.

"There's something with the water here that always makes tea taste best," she smiled. Dave rolled his eyes in amusement.

"Best tea in the world and still can barely come home for a visit?"

"Daa _aaad_ ," she whined. She scrunched her nose and took another sip, scowling sourly.

"What? I just miss you, is all; is a man not allowed to miss his daughter?"

"You're allowed to miss me…" she muttered in defeat. "It's just annoying when you make a fuss."

"Dads are allowed to make fusses over their children, and now that I'm a granddad that's doubly so," Dave explained. He did not register the nervous looks on his guests' faces as he continued on. "Tell me: is Davey going to eventually be an older brother or is he going to be your only child? I won't argue one way or the other, but it's just nice to know."

John answered first, putting his mug down and folding his hands atop the table. "Well, we were planning on having at least two. I wouldn't put it past us to have more."

"That's wonderful," Dave beamed. "Going to try until you get a girl or…?"

"Until I say ' _stop'_ ," Clara nodded slowly. "We did set ourselves a limit—John's books make good money, but risking having too many children on it is dangerous. If I had to say right now for sure, I'd stop at five if things don't end up too hectic. Even five is a bit much, but doable."

Dave raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Five? Oh… I hate to say it, but if that's the case they'd have to take their visits to Granddad's in shifts."

"Nothing wrong with that," John replied. He quickly glanced at Clara, who met his gaze only to dart back over to her father again. Dave noticed this behavior, finally, and knit his brow in confusion.

"Are… are you two doing alright?" he asked. "You're not acting your normal selves."

"Everything's fine, Dad. You just…" Clara trailed off, avoiding eye contact. She gripped her mug tightly with both hands, feeling the solid ceramic stiffen her grip. "You just broached the topic a bit earlier than we thought you would."

"What topic? Kids?" Dave was confused, looking from his daughter to son-in-law and back. "You… you are able to do what you were planning, right? There's nothing stopping you, is there? It's not… it doesn't have anything to do with Victoria, does it?"

"No Dad, everything is fine. I have little doubt that Davey's going to have a younger sibling one day…" Clara said through clenched teeth. Her face turned red as she finished her sentence, "…in August."

The only sound in the kitchen for a long time was the clock on the wall, tick-tocking away a couple long, drawn-out minutes. No one knew precisely what to say. After a few tense minutes, Davey's croaking wail came filtering down from the upstairs and shattered the quiet.

"Oh thank God," Clara exhaled. She bolted to her feet and quickly left the kitchen, leaving her husband and father to stare at one another from across the table.

"A-August…?" Dave finally choked out. He took a shaky sip of tea as John nodded.

"Yeah… surprised us too," he said. He slouched in his chair and drew his hands down over his face with a groan. "We're not saying it was a mistake, because we _do_ want to have our children as soon as we can now that planning is a bit steadier, but this was definitely not intentional either."

"I, erm, can understand that," Dave replied. His voice was quiet and his head bobbed up and down in shock as he reached for another biscuit. "I imagine you'll… wait a little bit before having number three?"

"If we have a third, then yes."

John leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, his chin cradled in his palms, as he sheepishly glanced across the table at his father-in-law. His whole face felt hot, from the tips of his ears all the way to his nose, and his stomach churned in nerves. He had imagined, way back before Davey, that telling Dave about an incoming grandchild a second time would have been easier, but he was out of luck. It was something that was likely universal, no matter the wife's father and no matter her jittery husband, and that felt surprisingly normal.

Yes, it was _normal_ and that was oddly relieving.

"You… you will definitely stay busy," Dave finally said. "At least you work from home and can always help out. Clara was enough of a hassle for Ellie by herself… I couldn't imagine two babies at once."

"…and to think that after Victoria, we were worried about not being able to have children…" John said through a strained laugh. He dropped one of his arms to the table and brought his other palm up to his forehead as he tried his best to not cry. The tears were infectious, and Dave had a difficult time warding them off. He moved over to Clara's chair and reached over to place a supportive hand on John's shoulder. After that, it took barely any time at all for both men to start bawling.

By the time Clara came back downstairs, a fed Davey in her arms and her nerves settled down, she was surprised to find her father and husband red-eyed and on the mend from what looked like a pretty severe cry. She slid the baby into his granddad's arms and reclaimed her tea, sitting down to contently watch as two of the most important people in her life made sure they were well-acquainted with the third. Clara leaned back in her chair as she observed, gently resting her hand on her stomach—Important Person Number Four—and chuckling quietly to herself. There really had been nothing to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When it came to surviving the Blitz and related bombings during WWII, Blackpool got out remarkably unscathed. Having long been a center for holidaying with multiple piers, an amusement park, and a popular seaside promenade, Hitler himself had reportedly portioned off the city to remain intact and relatively unscathed in his planned invasion of Great Britain. Despite this, some German bombs did fall in September 1940 by the north rail station and killed eight people in nearby houses. It is still a place steeped in tourism to this day, from traditional family holidays to conferences to theatre.


	62. March 1949

It was a warm, invigorating day when John decided to take the afternoon off and suggest the three Smiths go for a walk as a family. The time when Clara was likely to find taking a walk difficult was quickly encroaching on them, making it so that he found it to be wise to capitalize on the venture while he could. Leaving the pram at home so as to better utilize public transport, they rode further into the city and began to meander down a shop-lined street.

"I'm telling you John: I'm going _insane_ ," Clara claimed, her eyes beginning to well in tears. She was carrying Davey in one arm, the boy clung close to her, and had her other hooked with her husband's. "The doctor says it's the pregnancy hormones not having flushed out from the last time being joined by the new ones. If that's the case then we're definitely stopping after this."

"Don't talk in absolutes until after the baby's born, dearest," he chuckled. He bent down and kissed her hair affectionately. "When we begin to talk in absolutes, happy accidents happen."

"Well, this is an accident that _won't_ be happening because we're taking out stock in condoms and using those tricks you learned in France until I hit menopause, you hear?" she hissed lowly. John smirked as they turned the corner; if he knew anything, it was that she wouldn't hold to anything that involved the barest hint of celibacy between the two of them for long, no matter how staunch she was in the matter. He took a quick glance of the pavement and the people on it as they went along, eventually stopping dead in his tracks with wide eyes and the feeling of being punched in the gut.

"Shit, hide," John gasped, ducking into a doorway. He pulled his wife along, making her rather confused at his sudden change in demeanor.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Okay, so, you know how you don't exactly know everything about me, because digging up things from thirty years ago is fairly useless unless it's important?"

Clara bounced Davey on her hip and frowned. "What did you not tell me?"

"Sarah Jane, over there, with the pad and pen." He motioned over his shoulder with a twitch of his head; a woman was indeed talking to someone while recording the conversation in a tiny notebook. She seemed to Clara to be in her mid-sixties, but a very fit mid-sixties.

"Okay, that's nice, but who is Sarah Jane?"

"My elder sister—my very _cross_ elder sister."

"Your sister…?!" Clara could barely believe her ears. "You mean to say that we've been married **_nine years_** and you never once mentioned having a sister? I would think this is one of the _important_ things, John."

"Not really, to be honest, or at least it wasn't for a long time. She disowned us, one-by-one, again, very crossly," he explained, his voice quickening nearly by the syllable. "Dad burned most of her photos in the fireplace in a tearful rage because of it. I almost got through the ordeal unscathed but when I accidentally left her in Aberdeen…"

"...how do you _accidentally_ leave someone in Aberdeen?"

"That's not the point. The point is that she is cross and I haven't seen her in… blimey… over twenty-five years and the last thing I want is my wife and children to fall in the line of fire."

"John, if you haven't seen her in that long, wouldn't you think she'd be happy to see you? Her younger brother? After a war that tore many families apart?"

"Her younger brother whom she _disowned_ , need I remind you. Sarah Jane is a very headstrong and independent woman, moreso than I've ever seen, and she wears it to scare."

"Nonsense," Clara insisted. "If that's truly your sister, we should go over there and say hello, introduce her to her nephew, and let her know there's another on the way. Are there any other unseen family members I need to be aware of?"

"Not unless she figured out how to grow herself a child alongside the peas and potatoes, no; I just never thought I'd run into her here, after so long." John looked over his shoulder and observed his sister. She seemed tranquil enough, but how many times did she look innocent and sweet right before lashing out with a righteous fury? He was so concentrated on watching his sister for signs of when best to make a run for it that he did not realize that Clara had left the shelter of the doorway and was making her way towards her sister-in-law until he was too far away to pull her back.

"Pardon me, but are you Sarah Jane Smith, formerly of Clydebank?" she asked, not caring that she was interrupting. The woman looked at her curiously.

"Do I know you?" Her voice was very English, but Clara could hear the faintest hint of Scots underneath, as if she had forced herself to abandon her original accent long ago. The younger woman put on her best liar's mask and quickly invented an excuse.

"I _thought_ that was you—my name's Clara and I recognized your face from a couple old family photos, you see, and…"

Sarah Jane turned to the man she was talking to and forced a congenial smile. "Just a moment please; sorry." She then placed her notebook and pencil in her bag and folded her arms, facing Clara again. "Your dad's or your husband's?"

"Husband's; he never really said much about you, but there's no mistaking your face. It hasn't changed since you were a girl."

"You recognize me from some old family photos…? I didn't even know your husband existed, I'm sorry," Sarah Jane apologized, amazed she was even having the conversation. "I haven't talked with his dad in… oh. I don't remember. That wasn't a good time." She looked at Clara sadly, but forced her concentration over on to Davey. "Enough of that though. Tell me: who is this little rascal?"

"Davey, say hello to your Aunt Sarah Jane," Clara chuckled. The baby made a happy gurgling noise in reply, smiling up at his aunt. "Oh, do you like Sarah Jane or would you rather be just Aunt Sarah?"

"Great-Aunt Sarah's fine for now just to make things simple on the guy; the full name can come later," Sarah Jane said, tickling Davey's chin. He giggled, which was contrast to his mother's blank face. The older woman noticed and took her hand away from the boy. "What's the matter?"

"I'm not married to your nephew—I'm married to your _brother_ ," Clara said, lowering her voice so that none of the other pedestrians heard. "John's in the doorway of the shop behind me, scared senseless of his older sister."

Sarah Jane's eyes darted towards the shop entrance, back to the baby in Clara's arms, and towards Clara again. "You're my sister-in-law?"

"Unless there's another John Smith of Clydebank born in 1891 to Johnny and Ozzie, then yeah I guess so," Clara shrugged. She chuckled and kissed the side of Davey's head as she watched Sarah Jane's nostrils flare.

"Hold on—Richard, we're going to have to continue this another time. I'll phone up—okay, so, it's that shop, yeah?" She stormed over to the entryway John was hiding in, glaring into it crossly. It was only after following was she able to see John clinging to the wall and scrunched up in fear at his sister's tirade.

"Do you _realize_ how often I wrote you, trying to find out if you were _alive_ , you bloody useless sack of bones?! I thought you were _dead_! Instead of being flattened in Granny's house, you're in London! With a wife! And a kid!"

"Kid ** _s_** ," Clara interrupted. Sarah Jane snapped her head over to see Clara pat her stomach and arch her eyebrows cheekily. This only made the older woman's nostrils flare as she turned back to her brother, who flinched at the attention.

"Oh, wow, you've been busy… and you didn't think to tell me _anything_?! How long have you been married? I could have been there for the wedding!"

"Nine years as of next week and, well, no one was around for the wedding," Clara said. She examined her nails casually, ignoring Sarah Jane's ire. "Courthouse, quick, war and all, you understand."

"Oh Johnny…" Sarah Jane growled, shaking her head. "What would mum have said?"

"Probably good on me for giving her a grandson and not naming him John…?" he replied, cautious despite wanting to get the dig in. He recoiled at his sister's glare before she stepped back down onto the pavement and took Davey in her arms.

"Tell me, Clara, were you on your way anywhere in particular?" she asked.

"No; just out for a walk."

"Then by all means, come with me. My house isn't too far and my son should be home from school any moment now," Sarah Jane smiled. "Luke will be rather pleased to know he has an aunt and uncle… and baby cousins at that. Tell me, when are you due?" She and Clara began to walk away together, forcing John to reluctantly follow behind.

Sarah Jane had not been lying when she said her home was not far away, and after a short walk they were there. It was a newer house, built definitely within the past couple years. Everything inside was crisp and clean and inviting as the hostess bought her guests to the kitchen in the back.

"Luke…?" she shouted as she handed Davey to John. "Are you home?"

"Yes!" shouted back a teenage boy's voice, muffled by the layers of housing between them. "Doing some equations the teacher assigned!"

"When you get the chance, we have company in the kitchen!" Sarah Jane mentioned. She turned back to her guests and smiled. "Bright lad, Luke. I found him five years ago now, while I was covering the destruction the robot bombs were causing. Don't be offended if he doesn't talk much; it took _me_ a while before I heard his voice."

"I didn't know you had it in you to be maternal, Sarah Jane," John grumbled, bouncing Davey on his lap. She smacked the back of his head lightly and went about making tea.

"I didn't know you had it in _you_ to settle down and have children, you dirty old man," she quipped back. John gave his wife a wounded look, which only caused her to stifle a snicker.

"Tell me, Sarah Jane, what do you do for a living?" Clara asked sweetly. Her sister-in-law sat down at the table while waiting for the kettle to boil.

"I'm a reporter for the Telegraph," she explained. "I publish under the name 'Brian Sladen', which smooths over things more than I'd like to admit."

"You're Brian Sladen?" Clara marveled. "I know your work—you're marvelous!"

"Thank you," she smiled. "I have to say, I'm going to be really glad for the day when I can retire and my final piece start off with ' _My name is Sarah Jane Smith and you're all a bunch of right fools_ '…" Clara laughed at that; John… not so much.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to protest his sister's potentially ruinous career end, he heard footsteps overhead. Moments later the steps moved down the stairs and a teenage boy, presumably Luke, walked into the kitchen. He looked at the strangers curiously, having clearly expected someone else.

"There you are," Sarah Jane smiled. She got out of her chair and stood behind Luke, holding his shoulders supportively. "Luke, I'd like you to meet my kid brother John, his wife Clara, and their son Davey."

"H-Hello," he stammered nervously. "P-Pleasure to meet you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you too," Clara smiled. She stood and gave Luke a gentle hug, being careful to not startle him. "I'm so happy to know I've got a nephew—this morning I didn't know I had one."

"Mum didn't tell you…?"

"No son, your mam and I didn't know if we were both alive until a short while ago," John explained. He maneuvered Davey into one arm as he stood up and held out his hand to shake. Luke took his hand, but shrunk back a little at his height. John noticed this and quickly sat back down. "So you do well in school?"

"Y-Yeah. I-I-I do," Luke said. Sarah Jane sat him down in the chair she had been in so that she could go tend to the boiling kettle. "M-Mum… s-s-she found me w-with a book and bec-cause of that s-she m-made s-sure I c-could always read if I w-wanted."

"No need to be nervous, Luke," Clara assured. She took Davey from John and, after getting a bottle from her bag to give her son, sat back down in her chair. "We lost a lot too. Not what you did, but we understand. I helped place kids in the countryside as a teacher."

"You did?" he asked softly.

"Yes, I did. I taught primary school during the war and during some of that time I met many kids like you. After work one day, your Uncle John and I met at the pub and here we are, nine years later, with a kid of our own and another on the way."

"Okay," Luke nodded. He watched as Sarah Jane put the tea tray down in the middle of the table and sat across from him. "What do you do… um… Uncle John?"

"Oh, I illustrate children's books," John said as he started to put sugar cubes in his tea. "I built ships during the war, but we moved to London to be closer to the big publishing companies." He looked up from his tea and saw that Luke's eyes had gone wide. "Are you alright?"

Instead of answering, Luke dashed out of the room and ran up the stairs. John and Clara both blinked in surprise.

"He, um, does that," Sarah Jane explained. "He'll be back in a moment—probably reminded him of something. Lots of people think he's odd, but you get used to it."

Sure enough, Luke did come back within the minute. He presented John with a book; it had a homemade cloth cover that looked rather worn and just barely covered the pages. John took it and when he opened it up, his jaw dropped.

" _'Handy Hank of Hannover'_ …" he marveled. "Was this yours?"

"Yes," Luke nodded, sitting down again. "You're the John Smith that wrote this one too, aren't you? I saw your books in the shop a while ago and I recognized your art straight away. You write as 'The Doctor' now, yeah?" John nodded, speechless. The teen then looked over at Clara and blushed slightly. "Would it be alright if I read the book to Davey?"

"Why, of course…" she said, just as stunned as John. She handed Davey over to Luke, bottle and all, and the teen disappeared towards the front room with both baby and book in-arms.

The adults sat quietly for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Was _that_ the book you found him with?" John asked. Sarah Jane nodded slowly.

"That's the only thing he has left from before I found him," she explained. "It didn't even have a cover, so I made one for him. I didn't even think about it…"

"…and he figured out your pseudonym," Clara gaped. "He must have really studied that book, so that when he saw the art from one of your new ones in the shop he knew it was the same man immediately."

" _'The Doctor'_? So neither of the Clydebank Smiths can write in London using their real name… that's typical." Sarah Jane took a biscuit and munched it idly. "Think you'll ever do a big reveal?"

"It's not like I'm a trade secret," John grumbled into his tea. "There are female reporters these days, you know. You're not such an oddity."

"I am when people still expect Brian Sladen," she shrugged. "At least the girls that get into journalism now don't necessarily have to be doomed to the society pages and advice columns… what's wrong, Clara?" Sarah Jane watched as her sister-in-law crept over to the door and peeked into the sitting room.

"Just checking in on the boys." She looked in the sitting room and saw Luke holding a wiggly Davey in his arms, his brow furrowed in concentration, as he read slowly to his cousin. Clara went and sat back down, the corners of her mouth twitching up. "Tell me, do you think he's willing to be a sitter for when we need to go out?"

"Maybe not right away, but I think once he gets used to you," Sarah Jane replied with a nod. "He will probably have to stay over for a night or two, if you have the room."

"I think we can squeeze the lad in somewhere," John smirked. He finally felt relieved and relaxed; all his family was doing was growing, and he wouldn't trade that in for anything, even if it did involve a public scolding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, in order to translate Luke from the Sarah Jane Adventures to The Time That We Love Best, I had to tweak with his character tics a bit. SJA!Luke, having been born in the first episode of the show, isn't the best at communication despite being absurdly smart. He just doesn't have the social skills, being a literal Born Yesterday. In here he's a nervous-stammerer, a trait brought on by surviving the V1 rockets mentioned at the end of chapter thirty-nine as being when bombings got even uglier in London. It doesn't diminish his intelligence in the slightest (as many, many stammerers are actually very smart), but can be just as much a hindrance when talking to people with no patience as having no idea how society works… just in a different way.


	63. July 1949

The publishers' office was in a general lull as John came by with his new art proofs. Calls had been scarce all morning and most of the day's post had already been sorted and dealt with. It had been the perfect setting for John to walk in on while juggling his portfolio bag, a side-bag, and his son.

"Hey, Tabitha, is Mr. Brown in yet?" John asked as he walked into the reception area. The receptionist took one look at him and raised her eyebrows curiously.

"Babysitting today, are we?" she asked. John looked at the ten-month-old in his arm and smiled, amused at how the boy was turning his head frantically to see the sources of all the various office noises.

"This is Davey," John explained. "Hey Davey, can you say hello to Miss Beech?"

"'Lo," the little boy said, trying to form the entire word and not quite making it. He slammed his face in his dad's shoulder in embarrassment. Tabitha giggled and stood up to take a closer look.

"Aren't you a cute one," she smiled. John allowed her to take him in order for him to free his arms and put his bags down. "Mr. Brown's in and he said you can go in whenever you're ready."

"Good, thanks. I'm sorry, but can you…?"

"No problem, I've got him. Go, go!" Tabitha urged. He took his portfolio bag with him and disappeared down the corridor and into an office. Soon, Tabitha was joined by one of the secretaries.

"Did you see Mr. Smith today?" Beatrice asked with a grin. "How lucky is that wife of his…" She stopped when she saw the baby in her coworker's arms.

"Mr. Smith is babysitting," Tabitha smiled. "Oh, he looks so much like him! Do you think he's his grandson?"

"Has to be. I know he said Mrs. Smith is a few years younger than him, but that would make her, what, late forties? Possible, but unlikely." Beatrice frowned in thought. "I mean, I doubt this boy's a year old and Mr. Smith's got the air of a man that's been married most of his life."

"Married and happily so based on his reaction to Mrs. Brown."

"I think you mean _lack_ of reaction," Beatrice smirked. "It's nice to know Mr. Smith's a proud granddad. It's certainly a good excuse to not work on the filing. I thought coming back to a normal office job would be nice but ugh, it's so _boring_ after the Army."

The two women sat down and began chatting, watching Davey as he played with some toys that had been set in the reception area for just such an occasion. Time passed and John eventually returned, beaming with confidence. Davey giggled happily when he saw his dad and tried to jump up to run to him, only to fall flat on his face instead.

"Whoa, careful now," John laughed as he scooped up his son. Davey rammed his forehead into John's chest and tried not to cry. "Thank you, ladies, for watching him while I was in the meeting. Don't want to bring the lad in and have his real first words be one of the more colorful ones we fling in there."

"Oh no, we _want_ him to be able to come to work with Granddad again," Beatrice laughed. "Mum and Dad can't ban such a sweet and well-behaved boy from here."

John frowned and exhaled heavily, knowing he was cornered. "Umm, about that… Davey's my son," he said. When he saw the looks of confusion spread across the women's faces, he decided an addendum would help. "Mrs. Smith and I had _complications_ before, so…"

"…that's all you need to say," Tabitha said, cutting him off. "Either way, he's beautiful. You should be very proud."

"Well… I am," John grinned. "You know, Clara should be here any minute since we were going to meet for lunch. I'm sure you'd all get on splendidly."

"Ma…?" Davey asked excitedly. John poked his son's nose and chuckled.

"Yes, Davey. Mam's coming too. Oh, speak her name and she will come; there you are Clara!"

Tabitha and Beatrice turned to look at the door and both tried not to stare. There, at the door to the office, was a young woman, well-pregnant, who smiled as she saw John. Davey reached his arms out towards her as she approached to give John a quick kiss.

"Clara, this is Tabitha, our receptionist, and Beatrice, one of our copy writers—don't let her title of ' _secretary'_ fool you. Ladies, this is Clara, my wife, and our soon-to-be-named princess."

"He's convinced himself we're having a girl," Clara said through a clenched smile. She then held out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"Likewise," Tabitha said. She and Beatrice both shook her hand, unsure of how to respond from there. John put Davey back down and gave Clara another peck on the lips.

"Please excuse me, I should probably go to the bathroom before we find some lunch," he explained. "Back in a moment." He left, with the three ladies standing in the reception area awkwardly.

"So you're the famous Clara," Beatrice said. "Your husband just goes on and on about you."

"Good things, I hope," Clara replied. She knew the look on their faces and they were ones she had been hoping to avoid.

"Oh, always good," Tabitha assured. "How long have you and Mr. Smith been married?"

"Nine years," Clara said. She bent over slightly and pet her son's hair, with Davey reaching up at her wanting to be held. "No sweetie… Mummy's not supposed to hold you right now; you're too big for me to hold both you and your sibling."

"How much longer until you're due?" Tabitha asked.

"Oh, I've got a few weeks still. If neither of you have had kids yet, I would _not_ recommend having two in a row. Learn from me and space them out. I mean, yes I get to have both my kids by thirty but being pregnant for over a year and a half straight is not exactly the way to go about it."

"I'm not even married so… I guess that's good to know," Beatrice smiled awkwardly. "Now that you mention it, I never would have guessed you're thirty. Never."

"I get that a lot," Clara said. "I'm afraid one day I'll stop looking young and age all at once—can't stay just like my wedding day forever. Some people think it's luck, but it's really just a curse in disguise."

"Must be nerve-wracking," Tabitha nodded. It was then that John returned to the reception area. Davey toddled over to him and finally got his lift-up.

"Ready to go, dear?" he asked.

"Don't let us keep you waiting," Beatrice said quickly. "Go on and enjoy yourselves."

"Yes, and congratulations," Tabitha added.

"Thanks. It was nice talking to you," Clara smiled. She walked over to John, who held the door open for her, and they walked off towards the lifts.

Silence permeated the reception area, ringing loudly for the two ladies left to hear.

"Tab, tell me I was seeing things," Beatrice deadpanned.

"Sorry, Bea. I think we saw the same thing."

"…that Mr. Smith is actually a dirty old man…?"

"Yeah. No wonder he's so happily married—he actually _found_ someone to put up with that behavior."

"I'm not hungry anymore, but I think I need some tea."

Tabitha nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think some tea will help."

* * *

The restaurant was crowded and bustling with the lunch rush as the Smiths waited for their food. Clara watched her husband as he spoon-fed Davey some mushed peas they had brought from home. She rested her chin on her hand and smiled, rather content with it all. Still, there was something she was morbidly curious about.

"John?"

"Yes, Clara?"

"Exactly how much about our home life have you told people at your work before today?"

John did not look away from Davey but answered as he fed him. "Oh, not much. They knew I was married to a woman a few years younger than me, and by the time they got around to asking about kids I was able to say my son is still young yet. No one much pries in each other's business these days, at least there. I get the feeling the war hit them all pretty bad and social attachment isn't a priority for them. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, you know why," Clara sighed. "As nice as you've made the ladies at your office sound, they didn't exactly seem very welcoming. Shock I'm used to, but if they were faking being welcoming they were doing a rather poor job at it."

"They're just used to Betty Brown, is all," he shrugged. He wiped some pea off Davey's face with a napkin and handed him a bottle, which the boy happily took, before turning back to his wife. "My editor, Mr. Brown, is in his late forties and recently married his secretary, who so happens to be a woman just into her twenties…"

"…like we were…"

"…except you never married me because of the car I drove or the house that managed to get through the Blitz unscathed or the fancy clothes I bought for you."

"You didn't own a car until we moved here, the house never mattered, and you never even bought me so much as a pair of nylon stockings until after I stopped working," Clara replied. "Considering how little Tabitha and Beatrice knew about Davey and me, I doubt you know all there is about the Browns." John gave a little shrug and took a sip of water.

"I've watched them while at work and that's all anyone needs to see, really," he said, Clara rolling her eyes. "In the end what I do know is that the Browns only wish they could compare to the Smiths. When they realize that, we'll still be going along, just as strong as we've always been. Stronger, yet, because chances are we'll have our princess by then…"

"You don't know that," Clara deadpanned. "We could have another boy and that will be it. I told you I'm not having another one. I'm done."

"I've been right about it before," John chuckled. He smiled at her for a moment, only to get distracted by something over her shoulder. Blinking, he leaned over and watched as two girls in their mid-teens wove their way between the other customers and sat themselves down at their table. They were dressed very much the same in grey-blue dresses and their curly hair pulled back tight, one brown and the other a rusty red.

"Hi Mr. and Mrs. Smith! Remember us?" the redhead grinned. It took Clara a moment, but John's face immediately lit up in recognition .

"Gwen, Ruby, is that you?" he asked. The girls smiled back while Clara's jaw dropped.

"Wow, I can't believe it's you!" she gasped. "You both are so adult now."

"Well, we almost _are_ adults," Gwen shrugged. "Do you live in London now or are you just visiting? We tried writing you when we moved back here and got a permanent address again, but we got a letter back from the school saying you didn't work or live in Clydebank anymore."

"It's been, oh, gosh, almost three years since we moved here and I know I gave the school a forwarding address," Clara said, trying to remember. It was then that Ruby finally looked across the table and realized that Davey was sitting there in his child's chair staring at them.

"Baby!" she squeaked. Ruby rushed around the table and knelt down next to Davey to make faces at him and let him play with her hair.

"Oh, he's cute!" Gwen smiled. "How old is he?"

"Ten months," John chuckled. "I know you can't tell from the tablecloth, but we're expecting another in a few weeks."

Gwen's face darkened in embarrassment as she froze, looking over at Clara. "Please tell me he's joking."

"Children are one of the few things Mr. Smith doesn't joke about," Clara deadpanned. "Now tell me, how's your mum?"

"Doing well, and expecting us home any minute now," answered a deep, unfamiliar voice. Gwen and Ruby winced as everyone at the table took notice of the man who had now approached them. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair and a trim beard and more resembling a male version of Gwen. "I'm sorry, but are my sisters bothering you?"

"Hello there, you must be Rupert," John said. He stood up and held out his hand, which the stranger shook. They locked eyes, in which both men tried to size on another up. "I'm John Smith, and this is my wife Clara. We hosted your sisters for a while during the war."

"Thank you, and please call me Danny. Danny Pink. We, um… didn't share the same dad and…"

"I understand. Come, sit down, we don't have our food yet."

"I appreciate it, but we really must get going," Danny said. "I took my sisters out to celebrate my new job at their school, and we should get back before Mum gets worried."

"That's nice. What position?"

"Teacher, maths. Nearly took P.E., but, back's a little off thanks to the service."

"Well, congratulations on the job," Clara smiled. She rummaged through her purse and found a pencil with which she scribbled down their address and phone number on a scrap of paper, which she handed to Gwen. "Pop by any time."

"Do you need a sitter?" Ruby asked excitedly. "You know, once the new baby is born?"

"We'll see," Clara chuckled. "Now don't keep your mum waiting."

After Gwen wrote down their address and phone number for the Smiths, the girls gave Clara a hug each, John a peck on the cheek, and Ruby poked Davey's nose before they headed off. The waiter returned with their food not too long afterwards, allowing them something else to occupy their time.

Clara was partway done with her lunch when she looked back across the table at John. "What did you understand?"

"Hmm?"

"Rupert preferring another name; you said you understood."

"Ah," John nodded. He caught Davey's bottle and handed it back to him before stroking the boy's fluffy hair. "Rupert never came back from war. It happens."

"So… that wasn't actually their brother…?"

"No, it was him. Just… Danny and I are a lot alike. I can see it in his eyes. It's a thing about old soldiers; you often leave part of yourself behind and sometimes it's so much you can't really say you're the same person that went to war."

"Oh. Okay," Clara said. "He seemed nice though; very level-headed." She glanced across the table. "Too bad I'm already accounted for."

"…and here I was getting ready to suggest afternoon tea next week," John smirked. "He's handling it much better than some I've seen. Part of that could be when we met—had this been even two years ago it's likely I'd see a totally different man."

"Thank you," she replied. He blinked at her.

"…for what?"

"For coming back whole."

John smiled, the tips of his ears going red, and took a bite of his food. "You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back when I first started writing TTTWLB, it was before s8 premiered meaning there was tons of speculation about Danny and his character/background and very few definitive answers. This version of Danny gets off a lot better than he does in the show (and in fic, oddly enough), being that he still has family members and is alive and happy and doesn't have to deal with a lying girlfriend and her intergalactic sidepiece.


	64. 12 August 1949

If there was anything that one could say about Clara Smith delivering her second child in comparison to her first, it was _different_. With Davey, the labor had to be forced, making sure that he did not stay in over-term and potentially develop complications that would put the both of them in danger. She had checked into the hospital and was able to kiss her husband for luck before being wheeled away in a chair and bring their firstborn into the world. Everything was calm and orderly and very much routine.

Her second child, however, was anything _but_ routine.

"John… _John_ …" she whispered, attempting to nudge her husband awake. She was sitting up in bed, something she had been doing more and more of as of late, and holding onto her stomach with one hand and prodding his shoulder with the other. He eventually stirred, looking up at her with sleep still glazed over his eyes.

"What's the matter?" he murmured hazily. "You need me to go make cinnamon pancakes?"

"No… it's the baby," she replied. He blinked, unable to process her words so soon after bed and so far from the sunrise. "The baby is coming _now_."

John's eyes snapped wide open and he propped himself up on his elbows. "Wait, you mean right _now_ -right now?! You're in labor?!"

"If that's not what's happening, then I'm really good at forget— _ting_!" Clara hissed out the last syllable as a muscle spasm took her by surprise. "I thought it was just an odd kick at first, but, ha, no such luck."

"Okay, you stay here then, and I'll get Davey, and we'll be out the door in ten minutes," he promised, scrambling out of bed and throwing on the nearest shirt and pair of trousers he could find. He leaned back in and pressed a kiss to her temple in an attempt to stave off panic from them both. Trying not to run, John made his way down the hall and into the nursery, where Davey was sleeping soundly. After tossing a few things in a bag—nappies, another bag for soiled nappies, a clean set of clothes, and a stuffed owl toy—he looked around the room and double-checked that he had everything before grabbing a blanket from the rocking chair and tossing it over his son as he lifted him up.

"Da…?" Davey muttered sleepily. He rubbed his face in his father's chest as he and the bag were carried out. They made a stop at the master bedroom, only to find that Clara was not there. She was already down at the bottom of the stairs, her housecoat and shoes hastily thrown on and holding another small bag.

"Food for you both," she explained as her husband nearly tripped down the stairs. She slipped her bag into the one hooked on John's elbow and held on to him as he led her to the car. Another labor pain hit her as they were locking up the house and she squeezed his arm tightly.

"No, no, it's alright, I've got you," he assured as they made their way down the porch steps and over to the car. He tossed the bag in the back and opened the passenger door, allowing Clara to sit down easily without having to slide over the bench seat. John then went around to the other side, getting in and placing Davey next to them as he turned on the car and threw it into gear. He sped down Grynden Street, holding his wife and child in place as they maneuvered the near-empty London streets.

A short while later and John pulled up to the emergency entrance of the hospital. A nurse, who was just finishing up a cigarette break, helped Clara out of the car and gave directions on where to park. By the time John finished navigating the confounding multistory carpark and gathered up his son and effects, his wife was nowhere near the hospital entrance. He wandered about, with no one around at the check-in desk and only a few sleepy other patrons on what must have been an otherwise slow night. Making his way up to the maternity ward, he sat down in the waiting area with Davey snuggled in his chest and feeling as if he was going to collapse from nerves.

"Sir…? Can I help you?" a nurse asked cautiously. She didn't closely approach the scruffy man who seemed half in a daze, partly out of cautious wonder and partly worrying for the child in his arm. John shook his head and shifted in the chair he had flopped down on.

"No, sorry, it's just… I'm in that place between sleep and awake, you know?" He paused for a moment and licked his lips in hazy thought before glancing up at the nurse. "My wife just came in—you didn't see her, did you?"

The nurse relaxed and nodded. "Short with brown hair? In labor?"

"Yes! Her name is Clara—Clara Smith—and…"

"Don't worry Mr. Smith; Clara's in good hands here. You and the child can stay here for the time being, okay?"

"Thank you," he replied, exhaling heavily in relief. Stroking Davey's hair, John sat back in the chair and tried to get comfortable, waiting out when his son would wake up.

Eventually, Davey did realize that he was no longer in his pale orange nursery and perked up, barely giving his father any sort of rest for the time being. The toddler began to run around the waiting area and explore, tumbling about and giggling and playing with the toys that were set out for the occasion of bored soon-to-be-elder siblings.

The hours passed. No other expectant fathers came, and time ticked by slowly. Every so often a nurse would offer John some tea or coffee since it was clear that he had barely gotten a wink of sleep before or after his arrival. It was mid-afternoon by the time a nurse came out of the door connected to the ward.

"Mr. Smith?" she called out calmly. John twitched as his head snapped in her direction, having been entranced by his lack of sleep and the colors of the blocks his son was stacking.

"Yes…?"

"Your wife wants to see you," the nurse smiled. She waited as John plucked the boy from his play and held the door open for him as he carried the squirming child in. They walked along a corridor until they arrived at Clara's room. Davey perked up at the sight of his mother, looking very ragged though smiling over something way too tiny to be wrapped in so much blanket.

"Ma! Ma!" Davey giggled, reaching his arms out towards Clara. John smiled and put him down on the foot of the bed, allowing him to excitedly crawl up to Clara and snuggle aggressively into her side.

"Davey, I have someone special I want you to meet," she said. Her voice sounded as though she were in a haze—if John was exhausted, then she had to have been so a hundred times over. She put an arm around her son and guided him to look at the bundle of blanket. "I want you to meet your little sister, Wynnie."

"Eee," Davey blurted out. He reached towards her and his mum took his hand, guiding it so that he placed his hand gently on her shoulder. "Eee."

"That's right," Clara smiled. She looked up at John, who was close to tears. "How about it, John? Hold Wynn for me?"

"…of course," he choked. He gingerly picked up the child and rested her in the crook of his arm as he sat down. She didn't make a fuss as Davey had the first time he held him, yet still squirmed as she settled in to her new spot. John sniffled as he looked at her, so tiny and perfect, reaching his breaking point quicker than he'd like to admit. "I thought we agreed to name a girl after your mother, not mine."

"Oswynne Elena; both grans can rest easy in their graves. We're spelling it different from your mum's though—I don't care if your Granddad McCrimmon _was_ gunning for another boy."

John let out a laugh at that. He tried to reply that it was fair, that Mam knew best and all, but instead what came out was nothing more than a shaky sob. He held his daughter and cried, lifting her up gently and kissing her on the forehead.

"Dada?" Davey asked, looking anxiously at his father. Clara pulled her son close and watched as her husband sobbed over their daughter.

"Remind me when you're older, Davey, to tell you about your big sister," she sighed, stroking the boy's hair. "She'd be five now. Victoria was the light of Dada's life, and he knew everything he wanted to do for her down to how well she'd play football and who she'd support and where she would attend university."

"Aah?" Davey asked. He looked up at his mother in confusion.

"Oh, don't think this means we never wanted you," Clara added. She rubbed her nose against her son's and elicited a giggle from the child. "We always wanted you, and I would never give you up, but this goes beyond what you will understand for a very long time. Would you like to know why we named her Victoria?"

"Ah!"

"…because we knew we'd win against the odds in the end." Clara hugged Davey, letting the boy wrap his chubby arms around her neck. She smiled at John, mere feet away, as he continued to cry at the presence of their baby girl. "We've beaten everything the world's thrown at us. We'll tell you about that one day too, hopefully before you need to do a family tree for a school project, or need to talk to us about growing up or the war. I hope you and your little sister never know war or want, and that we can give it to you both now is such a comfort." She glanced over at her husband, who was beginning to compose himself, and chuckled softly. "You doing alright?"

"Yeah," he replied. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve, completely forgetting the kerchief in his pocket. "You know I wouldn't have cared if she was Troy instead, but having a _girl_ …"

"I know," she nodded. Clara reached out with one hand, waiting for John to take it. He wrapped his long fingers around her short ones and held her hand silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I'm not a very big fan of imaginary names/inventing spellings for names with established spelling standardization(s), but here I'm willing to make an exception. Yeah, I'm that person. At least we have the internet now, so that kids can figure out their own dumb names to go saddle themselves with (and this includes me so please don't assume I think I'm speaking from some sort of high horse-"Nehszriah" is from an OC I made in eighth grade, before I made internet accounts, and I've been stuck with it almost the entire time since in one form or another and probably will be for the rest of my life).


	65. September 1949

David James Smith was a very cranky boy.

It was his birthday, his _first_ birthday. Not that he knew it, of course, but it was definitely apparent to him that something was going on. For one, the Other Guy was there. Not the Other Guy that lived next-door with the nice ladies despite shouting silly-sounding things all the time, no. It was the Other Guy who was allowed to kiss Mummy, although on the cheek only, who stayed in the room next to the nursery whenever he came to visit. Davey liked him, because he did nothing but hold him and play with him and give him extra biscuits when Mummy and Daddy weren't looking.

…but now _everything_ was in a state. It didn't matter that the Other Guy had had already come to see Eee when she first came, but they _still_ kept paying attention to mostly _her_. He still was fed and changed and played with, but there was always this preoccupation with Eee.

It was Eee this, and Eee that, and it was really beginning to get on his nerves… meaning, it was time to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

"Wow, I _still_ can't believe you had two in a row like that," Dave chuckled as he bounced his granddaughter in his arms. He was spending the weekend for Davey's birthday and was having fun visiting with both the newborn and the toddler of the household before the other guests arrived. "Are you sure it won't just be a couple years until you try for another?"

"No Dad; what's done is done," Clara groaned, rolling her eyes. She had already lost count of how many times she had to explain that to him, and it was likely that she was going to need to explain it a few more times before she put him on the train the next day. "I know we were talking about maybe having a few more kids earlier in the year, but it's not about what Granddad wants, or what Dad wants, but what Mum can stand."

"So you can't convince her either?" Dave laughed. John put down the tea tray as he entered the sitting room and shook his head.

"At risk of upsetting the most crucial cog in the entire thing, my opinion matters not one bit," he replied, flashing his teeth in a cheeky smirk. He began to pour tea and distribute it amongst the adults in the room, while handing Davey a bottle. "We've got two kids to love and raise, which is more than I had ten years ago, so I really don't mind one bit."

"Ten years ago… wow. Clara, you had just convinced the university to let you sit your exams early," Dave marveled.

"Oh my gosh, Dad, don't even talk about that," she grumbled, taking a sip of tea. "If it wasn't for the fact they knew a war was on the way and they'd need all the teachers they could get, I'd _still_ be waiting on my results."

"How something so awful can be the reason for beautiful things to happen is beyond me," John sighed. He sat down in one of the armchairs and put his tea on the table in order for his lap to better accommodate his son. The boy climbed up, bottle in-mouth, and curled up against his chest. "It's like when there's a fire in a wood and new plants shoot up from the ashes."

"That is one way of looking at it," Dave agreed. The baby began to squirm and make gurgling noises, prompting him to lift her up so she rested with her chest to his. "What's the matter, Oswynne? Had a bit too much of your granddad already?"

"She probably needs feeding—give her here, Dad," Clara said. She took Wynn and left the room, going up the stairs and out of sight.

"What's the matter, son?" John asked, noticing that Davey was now writhing in his lap, attempting to escape his father's grasp. "You were sitting so nice… what got into you?"

"Ma!" the boy replied curtly. He wiggled until he fell off John's lap and onto the floor. Bouncing right up to his feet, he began hobbling out of the room and allowed himself to crumple onto the stairs so he could scale them with a crawl.

"Oh, he just wants to make sure he doesn't miss his mam," John sighed in realization. "He's been like that lately for some reason—as long as she's in the room doing nothing he's fine, but when she's with Wynn or not in sight he gets testy." He picked up his tea and took a long sip. "I thought that wasn't supposed to happen for at least half a year or so."

"I think that's because most couples wait a little longer to have their second child," Dave teased. He smirked into his tea as he watched his son-in-law's ears turn red. "What a toddler knows is around belongs to them, and even a baby can spark jealousy in the child."

"It's going to be a long rest of my life if the two of them keep on competing with one another," John exhaled. He slouched in his chair, silently wondering if trying to get the kids to play nice would be a good enough reason to convince Clara to have a third child in a year or two, when he heard a very cross voice through the floorboards upstairs.

"David James Smith! You stop that!" Clara ordered. The two men in the sitting room gave each other nervous glances, not wanting to know what was going on upstairs. Davey's cries began to filter down throughout the house, accompanied by the sound of his tiny fists on the floor, and that was the breaking point. "John! Get up here!"

"Congratulations: Davey is now officially _your son_ ," Dave frowned sympathetically. He raised his teacup in a toast of solidarity as he watched his son-in-law slowly rise from the chair and shuffle over to the stairs. John went to the nursery, where he found Davey lying face-down on the floor crying and Clara holding Wynn, trying to keep her under control, with a stern glare on her face.

"Guess what Davey did when I put him and Wynnie together in his cot while I was straightening up?" she barked. She only allowed her husband two seconds of sputtering before continuing again. "He was _hitting_ his sister! I don't care if they play rough when they're older and beat each other until they're sore, but _not_ while she's six weeks old! You figure out what to do with him—I'm going to go get ready." Clara then left the room in a huff, leaving her boys alone.

Watching his son, John rubbed his neck while he thought. A time-out wouldn't do any good now—Davey was _smart_ for sure, but not yet to the point of understanding what being in time-out was supposed to mean—and if anyone had the right for giving him a spanking it would have been Clara for witnessing the act. Instead he nearly closed the door to the room, leaving it open just a crack, and sat down in the rocking chair, waiting for the boy to finish his cry. Eventually he did and sat up, looking at his father with a red puffy face that was covered in snot and tears.

"C'mere, lad," John said, leaning down and holding out his arms. Davey crawled over and allowed himself to be scooped up into his father's lap. After wiping off the boy's face with a kerchief, he drew him close and stroked his fine fluff of hair. "Your mam was cross with you, wasn't she?" Davey let out a whimper; whether he understood or not was irrelevant, but it needed to be said. "I know it's not fun when your mam uses her cross voice. She's done it to me enough occasions to where I know better to invoke it."

Rocking the chair slightly, John sighed as he watched his son grab fistfuls of his shirt and wibble his bottom lip in an effort to garner sympathy. "No, what you did was bad. I know you don't feel like sharing me or your mam with Wynnie, but you have to. The two of you are going to be together for a very long time, and if you can't bother to learn how to play nice now, then you'll never be happy. There's a time and a place for everything, hitting included. It's never a nice thing, don't get me wrong, but you're much better off learning to share and take turns. You were that little once too, you know, and you took up even _more_ of your mam's time. Just think about how I felt, having her all to myself for so long and then suddenly needing to share her—your eleven months was barely a wait at all."

Davey made a small noise, desperate and sad, and rammed his face into his dad's chest, trying his best to disappear. John simply pat the boy's back and continued rocking the chair. "Now, now, you'll get used to it. Before long, it'll be Wynnie you won't want to share, your wee baby sister. She'll be all yours to play with and protect and be protected by and everything will be so natural that you won't remember a time without her."

A short while of silently rocking later and John began to hum his son's favorite lullaby. He was near all the way through when he saw Davey's face was no longer swollen with tears, yet he was still pouting sadly. Standing up, he rested him chest-to-chest and began singing, his voice low and the sound resonating throughout his upper body. John paced the nursery singing his slow and steady tune. By the time he reached the third verse, another voice joined in from the hall, light and sweet. Sarah Jane opened the door and entered, finishing the song off for her brother.

"I didn't hear you arrive," he grinned, leaning down to give her a hug.

"Just walked in—I haven't even thought about that song in _years_." She took hold of her placated nephew and bounced him on her hip, smiling gently. "Mummy told me what a bad boy you were, and on your birthday too, but let me tell you a secret, one elder sibling to another: you're still the oldest. Sure you have to do things like 'set an example' and 'don't go setting ideas in their head', but you know what? She'll still look up to you, and whatever trouble you can cause through her will be your granddad's ultimate revenge for us putting him through Hell and back." She rubbed her nose with the toddler's and he giggled, only knowing that his auntie was there and being attentive.

"Thanks a lot, Sarah Jane," John grumbled. "I don't need to think about _my_ kids turning into _us_."

"Oh, you're welcome," she smiled smugly. "Though chances are the way this boy will want to break your heart is by becoming a welder instead of an artist."

"My children can be whatever they want to be, dried-up, prying old aunts be damned," he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaving the room. Sarah Jane simply chuckled and kissed Davey's nose, listening as her brother welcomed the Miller Sisters from halfway down the stairs. Now that the girls were there to keep her son company it was time for the party to officially begin.


	66. February 1950

According to most of the other employees at Kensington, Gordon, and Brown Publishing, John Smith was a very pleasant and non-assuming chap. He came in on schedule, with whatever it was he needed to present to his editor, or the board of directors, and put up little fuss if asked to come back later. Some said he was lucky and had aged well, complete with a sturdy bill of health that did not seem to have diminished along with his hair coloring. Others said he was good at changing with the times, was clever, and even possessed the sort of groan-worthy wit that came with a long stint in fatherhood. He had just enough stomach to prove his wife kept him well-fed and enough interest in his teenaged nephew to bring him to the office a few times over the past year. When one untangled the mess and laid down the snippets that was John Smith the Scot, pseudonym "The Doctor", all there was to be found was a happily married family man with no inclination to be particularly interesting to anyone else beyond a friendly chat here and a casually-shared lunch there.

That was, until, the company changed buildings. Business was flourishing as people wanted to restore and refresh their libraries, allowing the move to a more spacious area where every author under contract was able to have their own desk instead of a pigeon-hole for their mail and whatever spot they could lay their bags on during editorial visits. John Smith getting a desk shouldn't have found anyone scratching their heads, yet a few of the things _left_ on said desk was certainly cause for confusion.

"So, who do you think they are?" asked Mr. Benjamin, a minor editor, as he held one of two framed photographs. His companion, Mr. Baxter from Sales, shrugged. They had been walking through the contract authors' desk area as a shortcut after a quick lunch, ensuring that there was no one else around to ask.

"His daughter and grandchildren, I'm guessing," he replied. "How much you want to bet that his looks skipped a generation and she just resembles her mum?" He took the photo from his friend and studied it closely—there was John alright, but the woman sitting next to him was much too young to be anything but a daughter. "My bet's the current Mrs. Smith is actually the Second Mrs. Smith."

"Now why would you say that?" Benjamin wondered.

"He mentioned one day last April that it was his nine-year wedding anniversary," Baxter said. "If he has a daughter whose life he's involved with enough for a portrait of the two of them together, and a separate one of what were clearly her kids, yet he's not been married ten years, then she has a stepmum who thought it would intrude to include herself in the photo. She's probably the one holding the kids off to the side."

Benjamin wasn't exactly able to argue with that logic and picked up the photo of the children. They couldn't have been more than a year and a half apart, the boy standing in a child's kilt while his sister sat wrapped up in a tartan blanket. "Still, the resemblance between him and the boy is uncanny—if he married again, this could be his second set of kids."

"…if they're his second set, then where's their mum?" Baxter caught some movement out of the corner of his eye and noticed a secretary walking through the area. He turned and waved her over. "Hey, Louise, we've got a question for you."

"Does it have to do with why you're lording over Mr. Smith's things like you own them?" she asked sternly. The men presented her with the photographs and frowned.

"Smith left these on his desk and we can't decide if these are all his kids or if the little ones are his grandkids," Baxter explained. He watched Louise's brow furrow, deepening her wrinkles.

"Cor… I didn't think she was right…" she muttered, looking back and forth between the photos. The men blinked at her, confused.

"Didn't think who was right?" Benjamin asked.

"Do you remember Tabitha Beech? The receptionist that left in December?"

"Yeah. To get married, right?"

"Yes, well, from the moment I was brought on in autumn to the moment she left all she talked to me about was office gossip, some of it pretty nasty. I know not all of it was true, because there was no way, but this really is a shock…"

"What's so shocking about Smith and photos of his kids?"

"…because that's his wife," Louise said, pointing at the photo with their coworker in it. "I thought Tabitha had something against Smith, since I never picked up on anything that said he had a wife half his age—you know the type. He's never made passes at the younger girls and doesn't treat us older ladies like we're too fussy and whiny. I don't even think he realizes his editor's wife could be a model in America if she wanted … but _this_ …"

"No, there's no way," Benjamin said, looking back at the photo of the small children. "You're saying these are his _kids_? As in that girl and him being married during the entire war and they're _now_ having children?"

"Looking at her, she couldn't have been more than eighteen when war broke out," Baxter said, examining the other portrait. He held it up close to his face, examining it carefully. "Well, they are both wearing rings…"

"Eighteen and what was he, fifty?" Benjamin marveled. "I'm not even that far into my forties and I couldn't imagine keeping up with an eighteen-year-old. There's no way… that _has_ to be his daughter."

"Sitting a bit too close to be father and daughter, don't you think?" Louise mentioned. She walked away, leaving the two men to stew in abject horror.

"There's got to be an explanation for this," Benjamin insisted. "If she's wearing a ring, then there's a photo at his house with her and her husband and those babies… probably another one with Mrs. Smith and her children too."

"…if she even has children," Baxter frowned. He gave the photos a good once-over again before replacing them on the desk. "I don't know about this. It all seems sort of fishy. You think maybe it's a prank?"

"Smith doesn't prank, not like this," Benjamin said, shaking his head. "Those look very well-done. I mean, they're in _color_ … no one spends this much on a joke with an illustrator's salary."

"You have a point; this has to be his family. Say, why don't you ask him next time you see him?"

"Wait, why me?" Benjamin's face went pale.

"Because Sales is the other end of the building," Baxter sighed. "You'll end up seeing him before I do, so be a pal and get this all cleared up." He patted his friend on the shoulder and walked away, not allowing him another word.

* * *

"Hey Smith, can I ask you something?"

The man in question looked up from the letter he was reading at his desk. His coworker, one of the editors, was leaning awkwardly on the divider barrier that separated John's area from the person next to him, sweating nervously.

"Yeah. Are you alright there Mr. Benjamin?"

"I'm fine, I just…" He trailed off and pointed at the photo frames. "I couldn't help but notice while you were gone you had left some portraits. I take it that's your family?"

John's face brightened as he picked up the photo of his kids and held it out towards Benjamin. "They are—aren't they clever little things? Oswynne, you know, one of her favorite things is being read to and I doubt she'll wait until school to learn for herself, and David, well, just a wee lad but you can tell he's going to be the reliable type."

"R-Really? How old are they?"

"We took these a few weeks ago now, but Oswynne is six months and David is nearly a year and a half. I know that's pretty close, but Clara and I had them that way so they'd always have a companion growing up." John shrugged, trying to distract from the tips of his ears as they began to burn hot through his lie. "I'd like a couple more, but when the wife says she's done there's no arguing against it."

"…and this is Clara?" Benjamin asked. He carefully put down the photo of the children and picked up the one of the adults. "She looks great; how old is she? Late thirties…?"

"No," he laughed. "Clara turns thirty-one on Saturday." He paused and glanced up at his coworker. "She… she doesn't look bad, does she? She's always stunning to me, so sometimes I can't tell…"

"She looks fine, it's just surprising…" Benjamin inhaled deeply, trying not to sound nervous or intrusive. "I remember you saying once that Clara was a bit younger than you. Ten, fifteen years at the most, but this is…"

"…twenty-eight," John scowled. He took the photo back and placed it back on the desktop. "You know, Clara is the light of my life and our wee bairns there are our little miracles. I wouldn't put these photos on my desk if I was embarrassed by them. Should I be embarrassed, Mr. Benjamin?"

"I…I never said…" Benjamin stammered. John's eyebrows furrowed and his face became stone.

"You _implied_ , and that's enough," he hissed. His shoulders tensed as he stared down his coworker. "Now don't you have a biography of Lord Wellington to mark up?"

"Uh… I think so… yeah…" Benjamin nodded as he backed away, retreating from the glowering illustrator. "See you around then?" John did not answer, instead furrowing his eyebrows more intensely than before. The man then scuttled off, not wanting to invoke his coworker's wrath.

Later that night, after the office was closed and people returned to their homes and dinners were eaten, John Smith the Scot, pseudonym "The Doctor", was putting his children down for bed with tears in his eyes. When his wife asked what the matter was when they left the nursery, he scooped her up into his arms and kissed her. He carried her to bed and lavished attention on her, bringing his wife to ecstasy not once, not twice, but three times, before they fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. She never did find out what prompted the extra enthusiasm, figuring that it was merely something that had rattled her husband earlier that day. The fact was that he loved her, and she loved him in return, and if something made him feel the need to prove it, then chances are that he was not going to be happy talking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While color photography was possible as early as 1861 (using the three-strip color process, something that was experimented with, reinvented, and improved on during the decades afterwards (holy shit three-plate-color)), it wasn't until Kodak began releasing their Kodachrome products in 1935 did color photography start to take off. The following year, the German company Agfa released their own version, Agfacolor Neu, which had a simpler process. Despite all this, color photographs were much less common than black and white, which were much simpler, more familiar to consumers, and had less issues to work out from the start. Cost was a big factor as well, with color photos mainly being used for vacation shots and special occasions as late as the 1960s. You can find early examples (not just artificially colorized photos) with something as simple as a Google search, and it's interesting to see images from the World Wars and earlier in full, native color.


	67. March 1950

Clara's face was beginning to hurt from forcing a smile. She had accompanied John to a banquet for the publishing house, meaning black-tie and bleak conversation. The company had won some sort of accolade, neither Smith was sure which, that necessitated a celebration that was unfortunately mandatory for all the authors under contract and their spouses. It made for a night of socializing that was anything but fun.

"So, what is it that _you_ do, Mrs. Smith?" one of the ladies she was standing with asked. The woman smiled almost mockingly—she and the other three there were either published or had published husbands successful enough to indulge them in all sorts of frivolous hobbies. It was a fine lifestyle for some, but it only alienated the woman standing there in the shimmering blue cocktail dress she had protesting to buying so firmly that her husband purchased it for her when she was not paying attention.

"I used to be a teacher, during the war, but now I'm at home with my children," she replied. Clara took a sip of her champagne and tried not to look insulted when the women laughed.

"You gave up teaching for children?" one of the other ladies asked. "Ugh, keeping house _and_ having to herd kids? That would be my worst nightmare."

"Then it's a good thing it's what I do with my life and not what you do," Clara quipped. "My Wynn, she's already showing signs that she's going to be a lot like me and be smart enough to sit exams early and make something of herself."

"Oh, at least you have a daughter I suppose," another woman said. "Where did you teach? You don't look nearly old enough to have taught for very long."

"The East End, at the start, and then up near Glasgow. It was primary school and the entire thing was very satisfying. I'd see if I could get my old job back when the kids are old enough for school, but I'm afraid the building's no longer there."

"The East End, hmm?"

"Practically begging for teachers, they were, but if the school never hired me they would have never sent me to Scotland and I wouldn't have my husband or our children and I think that's a decent payoff." Clara tried not to bite off the tip of her tongue as she stood there nearly seething. She could try explaining that the students she taught were nearly all the sweetest things she had ever met and she'd give up a lot to see them again and that one of them was even babysitting her children at that very moment, but she knew the claim would fall on deaf ears.

The women changed topics—the one's new gardening book was apparently getting ready for print—and Clara blocked out their conversation. She glanced over at a cluster of men and saw her husband looking equally as bored and put-out as she was. John was easy to pick from the crowd, having insisted on wearing his kilt instead of a suit in order to assert some level of color and flair into the evening. She caught him looking for her as well. He tilted his head towards the exit while scratching his neck casually; time to find an excuse.

"Pardon me, but do any of you ladies know where the bathroom is? I'm afraid I'm feeling a little light-headed; this is my first drink in a while."

"Down the hall, take a left and it's to the right," was the response. Clara politely excused herself and handed her glass to an attendant before walking towards the hall she was directed to. She stood patiently just around the bend and a couple minutes later John appeared.

"You too, huh?" he asked.

"How much longer do we have to stay here?" she hissed. "If I have to justify myself to those women while listening to how bloody perfect their lives are for much longer I think I'm going to scream."

"We have little over half an hour until Mr. Kensington gives his speech and the band starts," he said, looking at his watch. "We need to be here for at least a couple dances and then we're home free."

"That's still more than thirty whole minutes we have to slaughter," Clara grumbled. John looked over her shoulder and smiled cheekily.

"I think I've got an idea," he said. He took her hand and led her to a cupboard labelled SUPPLIES. They slipped in and John hit the latch on the door.

"This is your idea?" she asked. "The supply cupboard?"

"It beats hiding under the tablecloths," he shrugged. He hunched over and put his palms up against the wall on either side of his wife's head, testing to see how much workable space they had. There were only a couple inches of room between his shoulder and the other wall, but they could make do. He was about to lean down and kiss Clara's neck when she grabbed hold of his sporran and shifted it to sit on the back of his hip. "What are you…?"

"If I'm going to get caught in a cupboard, a full-grown woman with a husband and children, I'm going to make it worth my while," Clara breathed. She flipped up the front of John's kilt and tucked it into his waistcoat to keep it in place.

"Clara, what are you doing?" John asked, sucking in a breath out of surprise. Clara clucked her tongue as she gently pushed her husband into the wall.

"You wore your pants? What would Uncle Jaime say?"

"That going pantsless in public is unsanitary and you can't just let things haaaaaang…aaaabouuut…" John tried to talk quickly, but was interrupted mid-sentence by Clara slipping her hands underneath the waistband of his pants and sliding them down so they fell to his ankles. His voice went high and airy as his wife guided his movements, bringing him down so that he was at a more-accessible height. After shimmying out of her knickers and placing them in the sporran for safekeeping, she straddled him and began to unbutton the topmost buttons on his shirt so she had somewhere unseen to gnaw on. "All I was going to suggest was a snog."

"Would you rather a snog _now_?" she asked. He shook his head and sank slightly against the wall.

"No..."

"Alright then," Clara grinned. She started to grind against him, trailing kisses along any bit of skin she could come into contact with. John sank progressively lower on the wall, his legs turning to gelatin, while his wife began working him into a frenzy with her unexpected zeal. He tried adjusting his stance in an effort to sit more steadily against the wall and instead slid down until his rear hit the floor, disrupting Clara while she was trying to align the two of them. His knees brushed against the opposite side of the cupboard as his legs folded up and splayed to the side, testing the limits of his flexibility. By the time his wife was able to guide him into her and turn her grinds into thrusts, all he could do was make a faint, raspy noise, for all words he had died in the back of his throat.

Fifteen minutes and a quick stop at the loo later, John walked back to the main ballroom to rejoin the men he had been talking to. Actually, it was more that he tried to not hobble back to them, as his knees were still slightly wobbly from shock and excitement, but he seemed to make it alright.

"So is your wife okay?" one of the men asked. "You found her, right? You didn't come back when she did so we thought you might've gotten lost down one of the service corridors."

"Oh, no, I just needed the bathroom," John shrugged. He looked over his shoulder and saw Clara, unhappily returned to the pack and counting down the last minutes until the scheduled speech. "She was fine. Irritated, but fine. You try being nice to someone you have nothing in common with four times over."

"With that bunch? I'm surprised she was even able to get away for a breather," another man chortled. John laughed as well to mask his nervousness until another question was brought up. "Hey, wasn't that thing in front of you before?"

John looked down at his kilt and saw that in his tidying up he had forgotten to replace the sporran to the front of his person. He shrugged casually, though it more resembled a twitch.

"It was starting to get heavy, so I moved it. You know, age and things…" he scoffed. No one questioned him and conversation continued as normal. His coworkers didn't need to know he had been anywhere near a supply cupboard with his wife, nor did they need to know that a pair of silk knickers were currently sitting discarded in the sporran he was wearing rather incorrectly. All they knew was that John and Clara was as bored as they were, and that was all they ever dared need to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, the East End of London has carried negative connotations due to being a center for various immigrant and low-income populations over the centuries. Of course neither of these factors influence whether or not a person grows up good or bad, but snobbery likes to preside over reason in too many situations for comfort. To make matters worse, the East End was hit pretty bad during the Blitz, killing thousands and uprooting even more due to homelessness, a problem that had attempts at fixing in the immediate postwar years (the temporary prefabricated houses built after the war in the area were inhabited well after their predetermined lifespan, a few even today). There's been lots of regeneration and redevelopment in the area as well, with the East End becoming a trendy place for businesses within recent years. How this has affected things seems to be double-edged, from what I can tell, but whatever the case I'm definitely not here to judge.
> 
> Also, while the legend of what's under the Scotsman's kilt can be joked about (hell, I joke about it), it's a general consensus by actual Scotsmen saying that it's better to be sanitary than "traditional". (Besides the fact that most of the hoopla over tartan and the kilt and how to properly wear it has been a relatively recent (though beloved) invention, meaning the "tradition" can't have gone back more than a few hundred years at most due to evolving kilt fashion, and even that's a bit shady. Blah, blah, stuff about the Dress Act of 1746 and invented Romanticism during/after the Clearances, blah, blah, blah, blah.)


	68. 16 April 1950

"Hurry _up_ , John! Ruby is going to be here any minute now!" Clara called up the stairs. She had been ready for what felt like ages already, with her dress freshly pressed that afternoon and her hair meticulously held in place with some aerosol spray she had picked up the week before. "I do _not_ want to be late!"

"I'm coming!" John replied, his voice faint as it traveled through the house. Clara huffed in frustration and went back into the sitting room, where Davey was showing his stuffed owl a cloth picture book and Wynn was crawling around in an effort to explore.

"Alright now, kids, are you going to behave for Miss Ruby tonight?" she asked, scooping her daughter off the floor. She put the child next to her brother on the couch and sat down with them.

"Woobee?" Davey asked excitedly. "Miss Woobee come?"

"Yes sweetie: Miss Ruby's coming to play with you," Clara replied kindly. The doorbell rang and she put one of Davey's arms around Wynn. "Hold on to your sister—that must be her." She went to the front door and opened it, finding Ruby standing there with a large basket in-hand and bag over her shoulder as the chilly wind outside whipped at her skirt and hair. "Oh! Get in here! You look as if you had walked all the way from your flat!"

"Only from the bus stop; it's alright," the teen said. Clara closed the door behind her, keeping the cold outside.

"I thought Danny was going to drop you off."

"He was, but he ended up having a late meeting with a student's parents and left me some bus fare instead." The basket hooked on her arm made an irritated noise and Ruby winced. "…well, bus fare, and Orson."

Clara's eyebrow rose curiously. "Who is Orson?"

"My, um, nephew." Ruby set down the basket and opened it up, lifting a baby out of it who was six months old and grasping at his aunt's blouse and hair. "Gwen's at work and Mum's at bridge and Rupert usually takes care of him in the afternoons and evenings but…"

"That's fine," Clara chuckled. She tickled the little boy on the chin and stuck her tongue out at him. "He's your brother's child, yeah? I just didn't know he was married."

"He's… um…" She bit her bottom lip, reluctant to go further.

"Are you okay? You look worried about something."

"Rupert's not married," Ruby replied, muttering under her breath. She hugged Orson a bit tighter and kissed the side of his head. Clara sighed, clucking her tongue.

"Is that all?" she asked, taking the boy from the astonished teen's arms. "You make it sound almost like you stole him or something. Come with me Orson, and I'll introduce you to your new playmates. John! We have another visitor!"

"We do…?" he wondered, still out of sight. Clara shook her head and led Ruby into the sitting room, where Davey and Wynn had remained on the couch.

"Woobee!" the little boy squealed. His sitter attacked him with a flurry of tickles, causing both him and his sister to giggle. The children were just beginning to become acquainted with one another when John finally made it down the stairs, wearing a dark grey suit and his hair tamed with generous amounts of Brylcreem.

"So, where is this other guest?" he asked. He took one glance at the couch and saw the three children sitting quietly, with Davey in the center showing off his picture book. "Pulling double duty tonight, are we?"

"It was last-minute; I'm sorry," Ruby apologized. John gave her a grin instead and kissed her on the forehead.

"Nothing to be sorry about; just put the little guy…"

"… _Orson_ …" Clara corrected.

"…just put Orson in the cot with Wynn when it's time for bed, alright? We'll be back around ten and I'll take you both home then."

"Thanks," Ruby replied. She put down her bag on the table—school books and things for her nephew—and crouched down next to the couch to look at Davey's book.

"A bit ambitious, isn't she?" John chuckled as he followed Clara into the foyer. He helped his wife into her coat and pecked her on the lips. "Sixteen and doing as much babysitting, odd jobs, and studying as she does would have exhausted _me_ out."

"Then it's a good thing all you needed to know to get into university was how to read, write, and what colors were," she teased. "Besides, she doesn't want Luke to leave her behind in the dust—you'd work just as hard if you were trying to follow your best friend to school." It had been endearing at first, the way in which Ruby had quickly attached herself as their nephew's newest, and admittedly closest, friend, but the aftereffects meant that the young woman was suddenly incredibly busy in an effort to make sure she could get into the same school as him and be there for her awkward friend no matter what. At the appearance of a grin, Clara flicked her husband's nose playfully and poked her head back into the sitting room. "We're leaving now. Anything you need to know before we go?"

"Wynnie's milk is in the refrigerator and Davey has a plate of something right next to it; bed by eight-thirty and we're letting Wynnie cry through the night. Emergencies involve Miss Jenny or Miss Vastra, but _not_ Mr. Strax, who is an emergency in of himself," Ruby recited. "Don't worry Mrs. Smith. Just go on and enjoy yourselves."

"Bye-bye, Mummy!" Davey exclaimed, waving a pudgy arm. After both parents went back into the sitting room to give their children kisses goodnight they exited the house through the front door and slid into the car.

One slightly-harrowing drive through the city later and the Smiths arrived at a posh restaurant, where they had reservations booked since the beginning of the month. It was quiet and serene, on the riverfront, with lights dimmed low and a pianist in the corner.

Glancing out the window at the water below, Clara sighed heavily as she took in the sight.

"Is everything alright?" John asked. He looked at her over both the menu and his spectacles, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

"Do you remember the restaurant we went to on our wedding day?" she replied.

"It wasn't so much a restaurant as it was one of the nicer pubs in the area," he chuckled, turning back to the menu. "Eloping to Wissforn was one of the more insane things I have ever done."

"Hopefully that list shares some points with the better things you've done," Clara smirked. She sipped her wine while giving her husband a flirty look. "I can still see the look on Mrs. Hendricks's face when we came to get my things from the boarding house the next day."

"Heh; Belinda and I almost came to blows while you were packing," John laughed. The waiter came by to collect their orders and menus, quickly leaving them alone again. "You know I'd do it all over if I had to, right?"

"Even that mess involving me avoiding telling my dad for so long?"

"Yes, because we came out of that stronger than before and you know it. We came out of everything stronger than before." He reached across the table and held Clara's hand, stroking the ring on her finger with his thumb. "You go to the market tomorrow, yeah?"

She blinked, confused. "Yes, why?"

"I think we should buy the kids some bananas, make sure they know it's a real fruit," he said. Clara nudged his shin with her foot underneath the table, making them both giggle quietly.

Some more conversation passed and their food came. Light and delicate, it was the best meal either had eaten in what could be mutually agreed on was years. After finishing their meal and paying the bill, John and Clara decided to take a walk around the city, being as they were in a nice part of London with no babies to wrangle. Their stroll—the long way back to where he had parked, truth be told—brought them by many late-night shops and theatres with flashing marquees and clubs headlining both big names and the nameless. They stopped in one for a drink amongst the thick cigarette smoke and dimly-lit band, getting in a couple dances before finding their car for good.

Once the Smiths returned home, they went inside to find that Ruby was not in the sitting room. Her books and papers were spread out on the table, yet she was nowhere in sight. The downstairs bathroom was open and most of the lights were off on the ground floor, which did not settle over Clara's conscious.

"Ruby, dear? Where are you? Are you in the kitchen?" she called out. She looked over at John, who was hanging up her coat in the foyer cupboard. "Did you hear an answer?"

"No, but maybe she's upstairs," he said. "If she's with one of the kids, of course she wouldn't want to wake the others."

"Good idea." Together they crept up the stairs and peeked inside the nursery. There was Ruby, sleeping sitting up in Davey's toddler bed, with books strewn about her feet and her lap covered in children. John and Clara laughed quietly, with him bending down to whisper in his wife's ear.

"She must have been exhausted before she even came over here; I'm going to phone and say we're keeping her the night," he said.

"You do that and I'll get the right children in the cot," she replied. They broke and John made his way back down the stairs. He looked up the number and phoned Ruby's flat.

" _Miller-Pink Residence_ ," a deep, tired voice answered.

"Danny? It's Mr. Smith. I'm just calling to let you know Clara and I found Ruby asleep on her schoolwork when we got home, so we'd like to keep her and Orson so she gets a good night's rest. Is that alright with you? I can take her straight to school in the morning if you'd like."

The voice on the other end paused, chuckling through a sigh. " _Yeah, you can keep them—don't worry about getting Ruby to school though. She's got a study day since we have staff meetings tomorrow._ " Another pause. " _Thank you_."

"You're welcome. Ta." John hung up the phone and quietly padded back upstairs. He pulled the bedding back on the guest bed and checked on how Clara was doing in the nursery. Orson and Wynn were fast asleep as they slept side-by-side in her cot, while Davey let out little snores as he was gently bounced in his mother's arms.

"Permission from Rupert himself," he said quietly. He then carefully lifted Ruby out of the toddler bed and carried her over to the guest room. Placing her down on the bed, he drew the blankets over her and tucked her in.

"Mmmm… is that you Mr. Smith…?" the teen mumbled in her sleep.

"Yes it is," he replied. "Don't worry yourself—you and Orson can stay the night. I've already phoned your brother."

"Okay," she said. John was nearly out the door when she stopped him again. "Mr. Smith…?"

"Yes, Ruby?"

"I missed you… Dad."

"…and I missed you too, sweetheart," he said. He went back to her side long enough to kiss her hair and finally exited the room. When he closed the door behind him, he saw his wife shaking her head at him.

"Fell for them before you even met them, your favorite surrogate daughters beyond a doubt," Clara sighed. She pulled his face down and kissed her husband on the lips. "Be careful, or your _own_ daughter is going to get jealous one day."

"Wynn's smarter than that—give the girl some credit. She's got a bit of you to temper her, after all."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she groaned. Clara let go of John and allowed him to lead the way back to their room, getting a grab of his rear in on the way.


	69. September 1950

The day had been grey and chilly, just as many of the days previous in the week had been. John and Clara were snuggled up together on the couch with a blanket draped over them as they watched their children at play. The radio was on in the corner, some drama on as background noise.

"This is nice," Clara murmured. She was curled up atop her husband, with his jumper-clad arms wrapped around her to help with the warmth beneath the blanket. "They're behaving so _well_. I want them to stay like this forever."

"Forever is a long time, and I don't think they'd appreciate that much," John chuckled. He watched as Davey showed Wynn how to play Farmyard in the space they cleared in the middle of the sitting room, complete with small animal figurines and a box used in lieu of a barn. Making a mental note to sketch out plans for a proper toy barn later, he kissed the top of his wife's head and held her a bit tighter. "I know we should have probably gone over the summer, but I think we should take the children out to the country soon and let them see some real farms and animals."

"You were busy this summer to get that book done by Wynn's birthday—besides, it's better to go when it's cooler anyway," she replied. "Now that I think about it: you never did tell me how your meeting last week with Mr. Brown went. Did he like the tightened version?"

"No… Timmy and Donny are _still_ having too much fun in Goa, or something like that," he grumbled. "He and I both decided that after a third go, we'll put it aside and try something else if we can't agree on something."

"…and to think Donny was so excited for you to write another book with him in it," she tutted. She fiddled with the blanket draped over them absentmindedly before wondering, "If you aren't able to do it, what will you tell him? The last letter I got from Collette said that he's getting really excited about it."

"Well, then I'll write him saying that the company wants me to work on something about how we still need to be mindful of soap now it's off rations or something like that," he shrugged. The radio drama signed off and some music began to play. It was upbeat and cheerful, making Davey perk up at the sound.

"Dance?!" he gasped. The toddler then stood up and began hopping around, flailing his arms in an invented rhythm. Wynn sat in place and wiggled as she watched her brother jump about.

"That's very good, Davey," Clara laughed. She threw the blanket off her and sat up to watch, poised to swoop down in case of her son accidentally smacking his head into the television set again. "You're a natural!"

"Yay! Davey good!" the little boy beamed. He then looked over at Wynn, who was still sitting down and waving her arms around. Walking over to his sister, he took her hands and pulled her up. "Wynnie dance too!"

"Dan…!" she echoed. The two of them continued dancing, with Davey moving around and Wynn bouncing in place. Their parents attempted to stifle their snickers while the toddlers boogied until the song ended. Once the announcer came back on the air to introduce the next song, the children dramatically fell to the floor and to demonstrate their exhaustion.

"Oh, would you look at that; it almost looks like a couple little someones are ready for bed," Clara chuckled. She watched as the kids began to roll about in protest; they were _definitely_ not ready for sleepy-time. Looking back at John, she held her hand out towards him and gave him a soft smile. "Would you care to dance? I think we've got time for one go before we have to get to the kids."

"How could I refuse?" he replied. After getting a boost up, he walked over to the clear space in the sitting room, right in front of the radio, and the two held one another close as they began to dance slowly, twirling around in a circle. They were able to dance like that for a couple minutes, eyes closed and enjoying the moment, before Davey's voice brought them back to the present.

"Wyn _nie_!" the boy whined. "Move! Dance! Like Mummy!" John and Clara glanced over at their kids to see Davey attempting to imitate them by slow-dancing with Wynn. Every time he tried to turn his sister, she fell over so that he had to pick her back up and try again. " _Dance_!" Giving up, Wynn sat down hard on the rug and began to cry.

"There now, it's okay," Clara cooed as she let go of her husband in order to go pick up their daughter. "You'll get the hang of dancing eventually. Now let's get you ready for bed." She carried Wynn out of the room, leaving John and Davey standing there alone.

"Whelp, it looks like it's time to clean up," John sighed. He knelt down and righted the box that the kids had been using as a barn and allowed his son to gently place the animal figurines back inside. Once the box was packed and placed on the shelf, father and son made their way up the stairs and over to the nursery where mother was just putting daughter down in her cot.

"All clean!" Davey announced as he crawled into his bed. John yanked him out, holding the boy by his ankles.

"If you were all clean, you'd have taken a bath," he laughed. Davey's eyes went wide and he squirmed and flailed in an attempt to escape.

"No baff! No baff! I clean! No baff!"

"John, put him down before he excites Wynn," Clara groaned. Her husband obeyed, dropping their son unceremoniously on the toddler bed. Davey crawled in underneath his bedspread in order to hide from the dreaded bath.

After kissing both children goodnight, the two adults made their way down the hall to their room. Rain began to patter against the windowpanes as they readied for bed, thunder softly rolling in the distance.

"I don't care what he says; Davey is getting a bath tomorrow," Clara frowned as she sat down in front of the vanity to brush through her hair. "If he doesn't learn how to handle them now it's going to be _dreadful_ when he actually starts to need to shower every day."

"Ah, give the kid a break," John said nonchalantly. "He's two, and when he actually _does_ get into the tub you can never get him out because he's having too much fun splashing about. He'll get over it."

"Yes, but I want him to get over it sooner rather than later, before his sister picks up on it and then there's two filthy children running all about the house," she replied. There was no rebuttal; Mam was right, after all. She slid into her side of the bed and picked up a book from the nightstand to read. It wasn't long before her husband planted a quick kiss on her cheek as he joined her, a small sketchpad in-hand as he too sat up in bed to work by lamplight.

The two sat silently, reading and sketching as the rain outside continued on. Eventually, the storm began to grow in intensity and the lights began to slightly flicker.

"Hmm… maybe I should save it for tomorrow," John murmured.

"Save what?"

"I was thinking about seeing what would happen if I added a character to the Donny and Timmy story." He tilted his sketchpad so that Clara could see some doodles of what looked like a small girl with her hair in a French plait and a dress that was simply marked as tartan along the side in some notes. "What do you think?"

"I think you need to sleep on it before you go diving in without checking the pool depth," she snarked. They both let out a little giggle and pecked their lips together. A few more minutes passed of them simply enjoying one another's company when the door to their room creaked open.

"Mummy? Daddy?" squeaked Davey's little voice. Both his parents put their things down on their respective nightstands and looked towards the door to see their children standing there with sleep in their eyes.

"What's the matter, son?" John asked. Davey rubbed his eye with one hand and dragged his sister forward with the other.

"Wynnie scared," he whimpered. Wynn let go of her brother's hand and held her arms wide open as they approached the bed.

"Up!" she demanded. Clara lifted the girl into her arms as Davey climbed into the bed on his own. A particularly loud clap of thunder cut through the air and both children clung to their mother.

"If you're both scared, then why don't you stay with us for the night?" she asked gently. Her daughter nodded into her chest, while her son's face went sheet-white.

" _Wynnie_ scared, not me!" he insisted. The wind picked up for a moment and he shivered slightly.

"Well, I can't exactly send you to bed empty-handed when you made all the trouble of coming down the hall to bring your sister," Clara said, her voice smooth and soothing. She stroked Davey's hair as she made him lay down under the blanket between her and John. "What a good brother, taking such care of his sister." Wynn was next to be put down, cementing the space between the bed's normal occupants. "Don't you two worry—Mummy and Daddy have you."

The children nodded as their parents laid back down and pulled the blanket up to keep all four bed occupants warm. John and Clara looked at one another from across the pillows; their night was far from spoiled, merely changed. They held hands over the blanket, lacing their fingers together and allowing the weight of their arms to hold their kids in place. Davey and Wynn fell asleep nearly at once, snuggled safely in their parents' embrace.

"When do we stop letting them do this?" Clara whispered, just loud enough for John to hear over the storm.

"A while longer yet," he replied. He glanced down at his sleeping children, then up at his wife, and exhaled happily. "You aren't going to deny a silly old man the chance to be sentimental while he can, are you?"

"I will if it makes it easier to watch his children grow up," she chuckled. "Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight Mam," he echoed. Craning his neck carefully, John kissed Clara lightly on the brow before settling down. He took in the sight—his wife and children all nestled cozily in bed—and went to sleep with a grin on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that for many, many people, the concept of widespread television use is more commonly associated with the mid-to-late 1950s than earlier in the decade, but believe it or not, but at around this time there were more televisions per capita in the UK than in the US at the time and they were starting to become more affordable. Of course they were still in black and white and many were huge boxes and legitimate pieces of furniture, but I think we can all agree that John would be the type to see one in the shop window and happily go "I WANT ONE, AND NOW I CAN AFFORD ONE". Television sets were available to the general public before WWII, but it was only afterwards that the medium began to take off (blah, blah, blah, insert annoying stuff about NTSC vs PAL because picture encoding that makes me rage since encoding and render times suck). In fact, the BBC stopped television broadcasting during WWII so that the signals couldn't be used for enemy navigation. They ended with a Mickey Mouse cartoon and a sign-off, and came back on again with the same guy and cartoon.


	70. January 1951

Setting down his bag, John sat at his desk and began to sort through the mail sitting in his tray. Most of it was junk, but he felt it important he at least check to make sure nothing in there was important. He often came in every once in a while just to check on his mail; it was always a good idea to make sure no one was trying to contact him through there due to being unsure of his home address. (Once an entire class of Primary Twos sent a thick envelope filled with drawings for him. That ended up prompting him to send the school a signed copy of _Teatime with Timmy_ and a very nice thank-you note.) He was nearly through when he heard a familiar voice cut through the dull noise of the open-floor office.

"Smith! There you are!" Mr. Brown called out. John looked over his shoulder to see his editor walking up to him from behind. "I'm glad I caught you while you were in!"

"What's the matter?" he asked as the other man approached his desk. "You look a bit frayed at the ends."

"That's one way of putting it." Mr. Brown adjusted his tie, loosening it slightly to give him more room to breathe. "I just came over to tell you that you have to report to Human Resources before leaving today—we're going through an audit and every author needs to go through an interview."

"…an audit? We're not in trouble, are we?"

"No; we usually have one done regularly to make sure everything is in check and the government can't do anything to profits, since I guess that happened once before I came on. This is just the first one since the war started."

"Alright, I'll make sure to stop by," John nodded. He watched out of his peripheral vision as Mr. Brown wandered off, looking rather shaken and distressed. It was probably just something with someone else's deadline, he assumed, since that's how he always looked when they were approaching the eleventh hour. After finishing sorting his mail, he stood and grabbed his bag, making the walk towards the Human Resources Department. The main secretary was very nice and pointed him in the direction of the office temporarily taken by the auditor. He knocked and after hearing an "in a minute" from inside, he sat down in one of the chairs and waited his turn.

A little while passed and a man in a tan suit came out of the door with a clipboard. He looked down at John and gave him an eerie smile.

"How do you do? The name's Seb," he said. "And you are…?"

"Smith… uh… John Smith," the author replied, standing up to shake Seb's hand. "I take it you're the auditor?"

"Oh, no, just the secretary," he said, his voice having an almost musical quality to it. John reluctantly followed the man into the office and glanced about the room that was clearly used for receiving. It was sparse and very white; the temporary office held an unnerving quality to it that was not present in the rest of the publishing house. "So, are you John Percival Smith from Accounting, the John Law Smith from Marketing, or are you John Tillman Smith from Shipping and Receiving?"

"Uh, neither," John said cautiously. "I'm the John Smith that's under contract as a children's author."

" _Yes_ , that's **_right_** , there's four of you floating around, now isn't there?" Seb gasped. He scribbled something down on his clipboard. "You go under a pseudonym, correct?"

"Yeah; I'm 'the Doctor', and…"

"Wonderful, wonderful! It's sort of odd, you know? A name like that, you'd think you'd never actually meet someone with generic a name as that who makes it their own, but your four certainly do." John stood there silently, unsure whether he should be insulted or flattered. "Alright Mr. Smith, if you could please step this way and Miss Seabrooke will interview you."

"Another secretary?" he wondered as Seb opened the door to the next room.

"The _boss_ ," answered a voice. It was Scottish and feminine and had an unnervingly dark quality to it. John entered the main of the office to find that it too was just as bare as the receiving area, except this time there was a woman leaning on the desk. She was about his age, maybe a little younger if her hair was dyed or still naturally black, with a devilish grin and razor cheekbones that pulled at a memory deep in the recesses of his brain. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore a tailored women's business suit that was a deep purple in color. She accepted Seb's clipboard and took a quick glance at it before handing it back. "Seb here is one of _my_ secretaries, the other, Chang, being back at the base office today due to a cold. What were you honestly expecting, Mr. Smith?"

"Nothing bad, I can assure you," he said. He held out his hand for Miss Seabrooke to shake, though she seemingly ignored it, giving him a thorough, _pleased_ , lookover. "What…?"

"Just taking in the sights—you sound like you're from my home territory, or a stone's throw, anyway," she smirked. "What's a nice boy like you doing on the banks of the wrong river?" She pushed herself off the desk and leaned in close to John, so close that he could smell her perfume.

"Wr-writing to p-provide for my wife and chi-children, thank you," he stammered, feeling as awkward and helpless as his poor nephew in a room packed with strangers. He looked over his shoulder back to where Seb had been standing moments before, only to find him having vanished without a trace. Backing away, he tried to put a little more distance between him and Miss Seabrooke. "Not that I'm questioning your auditing abilities, Miss, but are you sure this is appropriate?"

"I want to get to know every one of the contract authors _personally_ , so of course it is," she replied, slowly moving closer as he backed away. "You said you had a wife? Children? The bairns back home after uni, are they? How lucky… or do they go back soon for another term?"

"N-No… my eldest won't start university for another fi-fifteen years, if that's what he wants. The children turn three and two this summer."

" _Oh_ , so adoption? How _noble_ of you, Wissforn… or is your wife just young and you didn't know the honeymoon had ended?"

John blinked in surprise. "Pardon me?"

"Yes, you always were a bit more formal than the rest of us, weren't you," she sighed in disappointment. "But what's a few words between old friends, after all?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't ever remember anyone named 'Seabrooke'," he replied cautiously. "I don't know who told you that, but I can remember my old mates' names clear as day."

"Oh, I'm hurt now," the woman said in a teasing tone. "To think you were one of the clever ones too; nothing like that fool Johnny Walters anyway…"

"…Seabrooke isn't your real name, is it?" John asked quietly. The woman before him grinned manically.

"Very good. Now, what's another name for a brook? Come on, you can do it."

He thought for a moment, keeping the auditor in his line of sight as he did so. Brook… stream… burn… he knew several persons with the surname Burns, but he knew the 'sea' part meant something as well. Sea… ocean… bay… _no_ ; the _letter_ C.

"Caitlin Burns."

"You remember me! I'm touched," Miss Seabrooke said, flirtatiously batting her lashes.

"I haven't seen you in fifty years," John stated. He backed up slightly, not enjoying the situation one bit. "Last _anyone_ heard, you were headed to a _sanitarium_."

"What the world views as insanity is simply what it cannot understand," she said coldly. "They took me from that sanitarium and told me what I was instead: _a visionary_. What's the matter Johnny Wissforn? Can't handle seeing a reformed madwoman having become a productive member of society?"

"You wrote in a girl's Christmas card you were going to kill her and put hearts around it—that doesn't sound like a visionary to me."

"In the past, bygones and all that," she said, shaking her hand around as if to brush the notion away. "The important part is now I hold a bunch more information about you than you do for me. I did always like you best, you know. Out of the whole neighborhood, the whole class, you were my favorite."

"I can't say the feeling was mutual."

"…and now you've got a young wife with two very young and very close-together children? You _have_ been a naughty boy." She tried to close the gap between them, though he kept backing away.

"Clara and I have been married nearly eleven happy years now, so I would appreciate it if you would stop this game of yours." John swallowed hard as he felt his shoulders touch up against the wall—he was trapped. "I'm sorry to be a disappointment, but I'm not interested."

"You are funny, aren't you?" Miss Seabrooke giggled. She poked the end of his nose and made a little noise before turning around, taking a few steps. "I digress—your books: I understand you do all the work for them yourself, yes? Writing, drafting, illustrating, the works?"

"Uh… yeah," he replied. He tried to make for a spot closer to the door but froze in place when his interrogator turned back around.

"That, and you used to be under contract at Kent-Smith McCoy Publishers up in Glasgow before the war."

"They don't exist anymore…"

"…but they _used to_ , so please keep up," she scolded gently. "The company is putting precious money into you, Smith, so I should hope to be convinced that what they're doing is the right thing. Your wife is at home with the children I take it, or do you employ a nanny?"

"Clara stays at home right now, but we don't know yet if she'll go back to teaching after the kids are in school. What does this have to do with…?"

"Ah, ah, ah—I am the one who decides that," Miss Seabrooke purred. She took another step towards John, keeping him in his place. "No other children you're providing for?"

"No…?"

"You do not answer a question with another question; do you provide for any other children?"

"No, I don't."

"Good. I just saw your editor Samuel Brown a little bit ago. Would you say the two of you got along?"

Was this a trick question? "I believe so. He wouldn't have hired me if we didn't."

"Any other shared traits that you know of?"

"I really don't understand this interview at all," John admitted. "I've been under contract here for nearly five years now—why are you treating me like I'm interviewing for my life?"

"Not your life, just your job." Her grin was legitimately scaring John at this point, as he did not know what to do to get out of this. "Just one last thing before we get down to financial matters…" She reached up and pulled his face down for a kiss. He dodged her, however, sliding to the side and putting half a stride between them. When he had agreed to come down for an auditing interview, he didn't expect it to come to _this_ , even if he did know the one in charge, man or woman. All he wanted was to get out of there and rush home to his family.

Taking in the sight of John, tense and ready to flee, Miss Seabrooke turned around and began to walk towards her desk; it wasn't going to go anywhere. "Alright now, when it comes to your salary in comparison with your royalties, how would you say you feel about the pay you receive?" When there was no answer, she glanced over her shoulder, to find the door open and the room empty.

She lost _another one_. Time to have Seb find a new person for her to interrogate.

* * *

The second John was able to make a dash for the office door he had made a break for it. Rushing past the smirking secretary, he hurried out into the safety of the main offices. Once he was sure he wasn't being followed, he found his way to the main door and exited the building feeling more relieved than he ever had. Miss Seabrooke, Caitlin Burns, weighed on him the entire way back to Grynden. All she had been to him was an old classmate in primary, nothing more. While he did not mind the concept of seeing old mates from primary at this point, he certainly did not want the neighborhood loony being unearthed after so many years out of sight and out of mind. The shock of seeing her after so many years jarred him, however, and as soon as he arrived home he only gave his children affectionate pats on the head before heading up the stairs and into his bedroom. He crept under the covers of his bed, still fully clothed, and retreated fully into a melancholic gloom.

"John? Is that you?" Clara called out from the hall. She poked her head inside the bedroom and saw the large husband-shaped lump beneath the blankets. " _John_ , what are you doing? If this is a fit then you're setting a very bad example for the children, I'll have you know."

"I'm sorry Clara," he croaked from the safety of his fabric cocoon. "I didn't mean to… I was _cornered_ …"

"What _are_ you talking about?" she asked, coming further into the bedroom. Peeling back the blanket, she kissed her husband's forehead and stroked his cheek in an effort to calm him down. He was shaking, and she knew it wasn't because he was cold—sarcasm was going to have to wait until later. "Now tell me what happened at the office. It happened at the office, yeah?" He nodded silently in reply. "Okay, that's a start. Who was it?"

"The auditor."

"The auditor…? What did he do?"

"It's what _she_ did. What she tried to do."

"Oh." That was all Clara really needed to hear. "Just sit tight. I'll be right back." She left the room, leaving her husband to stew in his misdirected guilt, only to return with Davey in one arm and Wynn in the other. Sitting down at the edge of the mattress, she let the kids go and allow them to cuddle up on either side of their father as he sat up in bed. "Okay, now what we talked about; three, two, one, go!"

On their mother's signal, both the children jumped up and planted a kiss on their father's cheek. Chuckling, Clara herself leaned forward and pressed her lips to her husband's cementing him in an all-around flurry of kisses and adoration. With the corners of his eyes beginning to sting, John wrapped his arms around his family and pulled them in for a large hug.

"Thank you very much," he sniffled. "I feel much better."

"Mummy said work bad today," Davey explained. "Why work bad?"

"There was someone very scary at the office, but I don't have to see them ever again," John assured. "You know what I think?"

"What?!" his children wondered at once.

"I think that when the scary people leave, I need to bring the two of you into my office so that you can see what Daddy does when he's not in his studio. How would you like that?"

The children gasped in delight—Daddy's _office_. They couldn't remember ever having gone to Daddy's office before, even if he said he _had_ taken them both once as babies. Davey and Wynn both cheered and latched onto John's neck, giving him more warm hugs and excited kisses. Clara watched as their children flawlessly did their job in cheering up their father, glad that whatever it was that the auditor had done, it was nothing that a couple of toddlers couldn't fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never seen the Master as anything other than a combination of creepy and batshit insane. Apologies if you ship it, but, yeah. S/he's the random chaotic element that comes in, messes with things, and then leaves again, like a violent storm. It's a bit two-fold, but it obviously works. Somehow.


	71. July 1951

Davey and Wynn Smith were staring wide-eyed at everything that was going on around them, very curious about what was happening. They were sitting together in a chair by their father's desk at the publishing company he worked for; if they were good, they would get to go see the festival that was happening on the River Thames. In the meantime though, they were very, _very_ fidgety and full of excitement. There were so many people wandering around and so many different phones ringing and typewriters clacking and noises that they couldn't place that the sensory overload was nearly head-spinning.

"Daddy, what other people are here?" Davey asked. "Is Mr. Brown here?"

"If he is, he's in his office, son," John replied. He didn't want to ignore his children, but he was trying to concentrate on a particularly strong-worded letter from an upset mother in Croydon who was very disappointed in the fact he insinuated that Timmy the Tiger knew how to make a cuppa better than his Scottish penpal by virtue of growing up next to a tea plantation. While he knew it would essentially be a waste of time and postage, part of him wondered if sending a reply outlining a few ancient Indian tea customs in comparison to the more recent British ones would actually made a difference.

"Oh, would you look at who we have here," a voice said. John looked over his shoulder to see Louise, one of the older and longer-standing secretaries with the company. She was crouched down with a stack of papers in her arms, smiling warmly at the children. "And what are your names?"

"I Wynnie! This Davey! That Daddy!" Wynn proudly announced. Louise chuckled and gave the girl a pat on the head.

"Aren't you a bright one," she said. "Smith, I have to say, I wasn't sure what to think about you having such young kids at first, but then I don't think I've seen a better-behaved pair."

"You can thank their mam for that one," John grinned. He leaned back and ruffled his son's hair, making the boy giggle. "Don't you kids behave for Mam?"

"Mummy says we have to behave or we go to kiddie prison!" Davey explained, his voice hushed and fearful. Wynn nodded quickly in affirmation. "There aren't toys there, or books, or telly, and they only serve sprouts and swede with onion juice!"

"That _does_ sound dreadful," Louise gasped. She played to the children's fear, falsely layering sorrow to her voice. "When I was young, my brother went to kiddie prison, and not only have I not seen him since, but I heard when he graduated the school they had in there, they sent him off to work in the middle of the ocean on an island that didn't even have a wireless."

The children inhaled deeply, the terror now firmly rooted within them. The secretary then stood up and waved her arm nonchalantly. "Don't worry though—I'm sure you won't do anything that would require a visit down there."

"Nuh-uh!" Davey and Wynn said together. Louise nodded and then leaned in towards John as she began to sort through the papers she needed to give him.

"You're welcome," she said lowly. "Helped raise my nieces after the first war—you need any tips just ask."

"Thank you; I'll keep it in mind," he replied. He took the papers from Louise and they exchanged a look of solidarity before she walked away.

"Daddy, we're behaving, right?" Davey asked cautiously. John made a noise in affirmation.

"Is there a reason why I _shouldn't_ think you're behaving?" he asked.

"No…"

"Then don't worry—Daddy just has to finish off this letter and we can pop off to lunch and the festival."

"Okay…" Davey slumped in the chair, with Wynn imitating him. They eventually slumped down so far that both children slid off the chair and fell onto the floor. Padding over to the desk, Davey peeked over the top, with Wynn hopping in place to see.

"What you write, Daddy?" the little girl asked as she bounced. Her father shrugged in reply.

"Do you remember how in the one book with Timmy and Donny, how they made different sorts of teas?" he replied.

"Uh-huh!" she said.

"Well, some lady doesn't think that Timmy should be able to make a proper cuppa," John explained.

"Why? Is it since Timmy is a tiger?" Davey wondered.

"No; it was because he didn't make _British_ tea. There's more kinds of tea than just British tea, and I don't know if anyone told her that," he said. "That's okay though, because I'm going to send her a letter back explaining nicely that not all proper cuppas are British cuppas." John smirked to himself as Wynn began to climb up into his lap and wedge her way around so she could scale his back and sit on his shoulders. "Some of the best tea I've had came from a Chinese neighbor I had as a young man."

"Back in Scotland?" Davey asked. Once his sister was on their father's shoulders, he took up residence in his lap.

"Yes, back in Scotland. She was very nice and the sort of person that if she thought you weren't eating enough, she'd make you come to her flat just to feed you."

"Like Mummy and Mrs. Miller and Auntie Collie?"

John had to think for a moment. "Yeah, son. A lot like them. She liked me because I would help her if she needed heavy things moved or help with English. Mrs. Chang even visited me a couple times in Granny's house in Clydebank." He grinned as he felt Wynn put her face in his hair, getting sleepy through sheer boredom. "It's a good thing Timmy and Donny don't have to visit America; I hear they drink their tea _cold_."

"Mummy says cold tea is bad," Davey mentioned. "Is it not bad there?"

"Depends on the person—alright, we're done!" John said. He filed the letter in the drawer of his desk to be reread later and made a note on his desk calendar to double-check it on a later date (to make sure that he didn't regret what he mailed out). Afterwards he set Davey down on the floor and stood up with Wynn still on his shoulders, grabbing his bag and heading for the door.

A bus ride and a bit of walking later and soon the Smiths came to the Pleasure Garden that had been built in a park that had been partially neglected during the war. Now it was built up into something of an amusement park, with fountains and rides and even a miniature railway. John allowed his children to run about, taking in the sights as only their toddler minds could. They rode the railway and ate chips to-go and were able to walk between treehouses connected by elevated walkways. By the time it was time to begin the trek back home, Davey and Wynn were pumped filled with so much excitement they could barely keep still on the bus ride back to the car.

Once the kids were in the back seat and the car was onto the road, John noticed something interesting begin to happen. His children went from being bouncy and excited to fighting off yawns and crumpling into a groggy heap. Before they even reached Grynden Street they were fast asleep, tuckered out from all the excitement.

As he pulled up into the drive John saw Clara leaning on the front garden wall talking to Jenny. They both waved at him, and he waved back, as he parked and got out of the car. After easing his children into his arms, he walked over to the ladies, bending down to give his wife a kiss.

"Looks like Operation Pleasure Garden was a success," Clara chuckled. "Better yet, this means that _I was right_ when it came to how to wear them out."

"More than you know," he replied. He then turned to their neighbor and smiled. "Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure there were more than a few couples there that resembled you and Vastra, if you ever feel like heading out together on a day off."

"Thanks Mr. Smith—I'll keep that in mind," Jenny giggled. "So they didn't wear _you_ out? I know I get tired just watching them sometimes."

"Oh, it took a couple cups of coffee while I was there, but the wee rascals didn't get their old man… not this time," he laughed.

"Well that's good," Jenny replied. "You really are something, Mr. Smith. I never know where you get your energy from." She and the Smiths then said goodbye and the neighbors both went into their respective houses.

"Put them down and we can get started on dinner, yeah?" Clara said as she closed the front door behind her. John agreed and they went their separate ways: he upstairs and she into the kitchen.

As Clara was beginning to chop veg, however, she realized that her husband had yet to join in the cooking process. He actually enjoyed helping out with dinner when he could, and she had expected him to be all over the idea as something to help him wind down from a day out with the children. She went upstairs to find him, wondering if Wynn was being fussy again, which she had been as of late.

Instead, she found one tired husband sitting in the nursery rocker, both children in his arms. The bairns were cuddled up against their father's chest, just as tired. Clara quietly shut the nursery door and left her family to rest while she finished up dinner; she was _definitely_ going to tease John about this one for a long time to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Festival of Britain was a summer-long, nation-wide event that took place in 1951 that was supposed to celebrate the [then-]Modern Britain and contributions to various fields by British minds. Exhibits were stationed all over the UK, with a sort of centralized attraction along the South Bank in London (the Pleasure Gardens, as talked about here, were a couple miles away and constructed as a "lighter side"). Very little of the original exhibits survived after the Festival ended, as soon it was torn down thanks to politics. One of the physical things that survived is the Royal Festival Hall, which was the first post-WWII building to gain Grade I protection in the UK. Some of the Pleasure Gardens became incorporated into Battersea Park and weren't torn down until the 1970s. York and Chester still put on medieval mystery plays thanks to the Festival and there are film fests all around that started in 1951 and simply have never stopped (for example; I'm sure the cultural impact reaches way beyond this).


	72. Early October 1951

"Are you sure you've got the kids?" Clara asked as she pulled a shawl off the chair in the sitting room and draping it around her shoulders. Her husband was leaning over the couch, hand bracing on the wall as he looked over their children while they browsed through a picture book.

"They're fine, Mam," John said. He shoved himself off the wall and walked over to her. "We're going to have a great time while you're gone." He bent down and gave her a kiss, bending back up with a grin. "Just head on out and relax—we'll still be here when you get back."

"No sweets and no spoiling them," she warned. He gave her a wounded look and she groaned in reply. "No _unnecessary_ spoiling."

"Scout's honor."

Clara rolled her eyes and sighed. "Don't give me that; you were too old for Boy Scouts and you know it. I'll see you when I get home, yeah?"

"Enjoy," John replied. He watched as the kids got a goodbye kiss from Mummy and followed her to the front door to get one in for the road. She then walked on over to the other side of the garden wall, where Vastra, Jenny, and Mrs. Owens were waiting on her so that Strax could drive them further into town for their day of going to the cinema followed by window shopping.

Closing the door, John turned around to find that Davey and Wynn had made their way from the couch to the foyer, staring up at him with their wide, curious eyes.

"When is Mummy coming back?" Davey asked.

"Whenever it is that she comes back," his father replied. He bent down so that he was eye-level with his children and grinned at them. "It doesn't mean that it's going to be boring; we've had loads of fun without your mam before."

"But we _go_ wifout Mummy, not _stay_ wifout Mummy," Wynn insisted. "Home _boring_ alone."

"Why, you're not alone! We're here together!" John said. Jerking his head, he motioned towards the stairway. "Why don't the two of you go get some pillows and blankets from your room and meet me in my studio?" The kids both nodded quickly and rushed up the stairs as fast as they could manage. Chuckling to himself, John walked calmly up the stairs and into his work room. There he gathered some pencils and crayons and paper and waited until two little piles of blanket came hobbling into the room.

"Where do you want this, Daddy?" Davey wondered.

"Oh, just put it where you want," he said. The kids both did as they were told and dropped their things on the floor. "Now go ahead and make yourselves comfortable—Daddy has to collect just a couple more things." He found a couple of hard boards and waited until the siblings were wrapped up in their blankets and sitting on the pillows in the center of the room. Carefully, he placed a board each in front of them, with paper, pencils, and crayons going between them.

"We get to draw?" Wynn gasped.

"You have to draw something _very specific_ ," John explained. "I need you two to draw _places_ , not people. This means no drawings of us or your mam or anyone else, alright?"

"Why?"

"…because, sweetling," he said, reaching down to pet his daughter's hair. "This is going to be a very important project we do together."

"Then where's your pillow and blanket?" Davey asked.

"I get the chair, because I'm Dad and otherwise my back hurts," John lied. Both Davey and Wynn accepted the fib and each took a piece of paper to begin working. "Take your time and do a good job, okay? We'll take a break in a little while to go outside."

"Okay," the kids replied. They each took a pencil and began to sketch crudely, their fine motor skills still attempting to take shape. John smiled to himself and sat down at his desk before taking his own sheet of paper and getting to work himself.

* * *

Clara walked out of the loo at the cinema and glanced around the lobby for her friends. They were standing off to the side of the room, chatting with one another as they waited for her.

"Thanks for waiting!" she said as she walked up to them. "So, what did you think of the movie?"

"Oh my _gosh_ , that Gene Kelly is to die for," Mrs. Owens said. "He dances so wonderfully it's like a dream." She then turned to Jenny and Vastra with a frown. "I still don't know how the two of you can't agree; I'd think he'd hit at least one criteria of every woman's perfect man."

"The perfect man cooks, cleans, and drives us around," Vastra replied dryly. "Not every woman dreams of being romanced by the men on the cinema screen."

"That's the problem with you professional women," Mrs. Owens scoffed. "You'd get along great with my aunt—I can already tell. She couldn't find a husband and went to work instead and now…" She trailed off as she pulled a grumpy Vastra along, leaving Clara and Jenny to look at one another with beyond-amused faces. It wasn't their fault Mrs. Owens couldn't see what was beyond the tip of her nose, but as long as she remained oblivious, it was something they weren't going to worry about.

* * *

"Time for lunch!" John called out the kitchen window. Davey and Wynn abandoned their child-sized football and rushed to the back door. They barreled into the kitchen and climbed onto their seats, waiting bouncily for their father to put down their food. He eventually did, delivering the sandwiches and sliced up bananas with a flourish. After putting down some milk for them both, he took his seat with his own lunch and watched his children as they ate.

"What are we going to do when we're done drawing, Daddy?" Davey asked. "We almost have _three_ places each!"

"You'll see," John said, mouth full with sandwich. "I'm almost done with my end of the project, and then we can put everything together.

"Daddy not work…?" Wynn marveled. "But Daddy sat at work desk! That mean Daddy work!"

"Not this morning," he replied. "This morning was something a bit different. This afternoon I'll work, but only after our project is done."

The siblings glanced at one another, not sure what to say. Usually when Daddy made them draw something, it meant he wanted them to stay busy while he worked on his books. It was okay, and they liked drawing, but they knew what it was all about. Now Daddy said he had something to add to their drawings, which made things much more interesting.

Hurriedly, the kids stuffed their faces and drank their milk before hurrying back up the stairs. They crashed into their respective pillow-blanket piles and continued concentrating on their scribbly masterpieces. Their father followed not too long afterwards, sliding back into his chair and taking a pair of scissors from the desk drawer. He began to cut some paper, though what it was the kids could not see.

"Okay Daddy! Done!" Wynn announced, holding up her landscape. It was of a park and resembled the one they had played in the month prior on a trip back up to Glasgow. She had also drawn the sitting room and their back garden.

"Hold _on_ , Wynnie!" Davey whined. He was trying to finish coloring in the vines in the jungle scene he was working on, having already completed a forest and the seaside. A couple more lines of color and he nodded resolutely. "Okay, I'm done too. Are you done, Daddy?"

"Almost; one moment, my wee bairns," John smirked. A few minutes passed that was just him snipping at paper before he finally gathered up his work and turned around, hiding what was in his hands. "Okay, gather up your drawings and let's go back down to the kitchen!"

Davey and Wynn picked up their landscapes and followed their father back down the stairs in confusion. It didn't make sense, to go upstairs to color and then go back downstairs. Maybe they were putting their things on the refrigerator? Sometimes Daddy and Mummy did that with their pictures. They quietly laid out their drawings on the table and looked up at their dad in confusion.

"Now what?" Davey asked.

"This," John said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. He picked up one of the scraps of stiff paper in his hand and placed it on the jungle scene.

"Timmy!" Wynn squealed, pointing at the cut-out tiger. "Daddy drew Timmy!"

"There's more," he chuckled. Taking another piece, he put it atop the Glasgow park.

"Donny!" she gasped. Her eyes went wide in excitement. "Daddy draw Vicky too?!"

"Daddy drew more than just Vicky," he laughed, putting a drawing of a tartan-clad girl next to Timmy. As he placed down the paper dolls, he named them proudly. "Here's Davey and Wynnie, and their cousin Luke, and their friend Orson, and his aunties Gwen and Ruby."

"Wow… you drew all these…? For us?" Davey asked, astonished.

"Yes I did," John confirmed. "Now you can have adventures wherever you want, and go anywhere you wish, as long as you can draw it out on paper."

"Thanks Daddy!" Wynn squeaked. She and her brother both hugged their father before taking their new toys and going up the stairs to the nursery to play with them. By the time John made it back upstairs, he could see his children through the open nursery door, making up their own stories for their new dolls to act out. He sat down in his studio and went back to his regular work, beaming with pride.

* * *

"Okay, see you tomorrow!" Clara called out from her front stoop, waving at her friends. Mrs. Owens waved back from across the street, and Jenny from next door. Stepping inside her house, Clara found that it was too quiet for her liking, especially on an afternoon where she hadn't been home all day.

"John? Kids?" she called out. She climbed the stairs and peeked inside the nursery to find her children playing calmly.

"Mummy! You back!" Wynn cheered. She bounced up and ran over to hug her mother happily. "Daddy made dolls!"

"He did?" she asked, bending down so as to speak to the children better.

"Yeah! See?" Davey added. He carefully picked up the scene they were playing with—the siblings with Orson and Timmy playing in the wood—and showed his mother. "I took Orson and Wynnie to the forest, and there we met Timmy! He's a friendly tiger, so it's okay."

"Well, I should hope he's a friendly tiger," Clara replied. "Who are those other dolls over there?"

"Miss Gwen and Miss Woobee and Donny and Vicky!" Wynn explained. She bounced over to the dolls and picked them up to show them off. "One story had Vicky and me! We had tea!"

"Did you now?" Clara asked, standing straight up again. She ruffled the kids' hair and turned around to leave. "Keep on playing; I'm going to have to thank Daddy for making you such lovely toys."

"Okay!" the children said in unison. They continued playing as Clara made her way down the hall and over to John's studio. Her husband was there, working diligently, as she came in and wrapped her arm around his shoulders, planting a kiss on the side of his head.

"Did you have a nice time out with the girls?" he asked, putting down his pencil to look up at her.

"Yes I did, you arse," she replied. Her voice was much too cheery to be anything but unsettling. "Why did you make the children a paper doll of their sister?"

John sighed in defeat, knowing he was found out. "To them she's just the girl in the books with Timmy and Donny. There's no harm in it."

"I didn't mind you putting her in the books at first because I thought it would help you, but _be careful, John_ ," she warned, tapping the back of his head. "One of these days they're going to ask and I want you to be able to handle it."

"At least they know their sister," he muttered in defense. "It'll make it better, I know it will." He turned his face away and held the hand resting on his shoulder. "Our children are seven, three, and two, and the only way that will change is when we turn the calendar after Hogmanay."

"You're such an idiot," Clara choked out. She put her face down in John's hair and breathed in deeply, holding it together as she felt his arm wind its way around her waist to hold her steady.

"…but I'm _your_ idiot," he reminded her. She tightened her grip on his shoulders and laughed awkwardly; of course, he was her idiot, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scouting handbook directed at boys was published in the UK in 1908 (first as a magazine-type publication, then as an actual book), when John would have turned seventeen. While seventeen is not too old to be a Boy Scout, it definitely would have been one of those things where John would have been on the cusp for, and probably eschewed since he wanted to go to art school and do stuff there instead.
> 
> Another thing of note is that 1951 saw the introduction of Colorforms, or vinyl paper dolls that stuck to the various scenes they came with only to be repositioned later. They were a huge hit and made a lasting impression on the toy industry, to the point that they're listed amongst some of the best toys ever (though your mileage may vary on that, which is perfectly acceptable).


	73. December 1951

'Twas four days before Christmas, and all along Grynden,

Not a child was naughty, not even young Trevor Pinden.

With excitement in the air and school out for the Season,

The neighborhood children behaved for one singular reason:

They stood in the dead end, huddled 'round the tree,

The looks on their faces filled with anticipation and glee.

With Clara in a shawl and I in a jumper

We held our wee bairns—it was a down-in-the-dumper.

I couldn't play Santa, from that I was barred,

Something about manners and cursing off-guard.

The pudding brains wondered, stares fixed down the lane.

Was their gift a puzzle or book? Or a tiny toy train?

My daughter was quiet and my son, he was too,

When a noise clamored out and without further ado,

Santa Strax came, kicked out the door of his house.

His sister was firm, as was her dear spouse,

"Deliver those gifts, and do please be quick,

"Or you'll miss your program; it'll be on in a tick."

We watched as he straightened, door slammed in his face,

Then sprinting down at us, as if it were a race,

Upright and quick-winded, he reminded me greatly,

Of Dwarves from _The Hobbit_. With that jog so innately

He thundered on over, the kids started squealing,

But what he said next sent them all reeling:

"Time to bring the nation its honor and glory,

"Even if it means being red-clad and hoary!

"Gather 'round now, or you'll meet your end!

"Hurry up, quick, we've strongholds to defend!"

Wynn looked up from my arms, confused as could be.

"Daddy, can we go home?" she did thusly plea.

Before I could answer, Santa Strax did begin,

His duty to King and Country, much to my chagrin,

A tangerine he did take from the depths of the sack,

And whipped it at me; I then dodged the attack.

"Good show, Doctor!" he cackled with glee.

My teeth ground in anger—why him over me?

He tossed toys and fruit, one hit a wee rascal,

Yet this went ignored as Strax emptied his satchel.

Davey ducked behind Clara to keep himself hidden.

He knew the behavior was rude and expressly forbidden,

By his mother and me, and it was not polite,

To play Santa this way and give the children a fright.

With his sack freshly emptied and they toys now delivered,

Santa Strax laughed in amusement as the rest of us shivered,

"With youths such as you, we shall never succumb,

"To the Empire's foes; we shall always overcome!"

And with that he did rush back to the house next to mine,

To run past the gate and catch that night's ' _What's My Line?_ '

My wife and I looked at the destruction around us,

The chaos and terror caused by mishearing me cuss.

We picked up the toys, the tangerines, the rubble,

And handed them out to each child; 's no trouble.

They thanked us for helping and they'd tell their folks,

That this year's Santa was awful, and it was not some dumb hoax.

As I walked my family back home, my wife and children so dear,

I muttered to myself, "Well, there's always next year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never seen any of the various incarnations of What's My Line?, the show that the Badduns watch in 101 Dalmatians is a direct parody of it. Another thing to note is that it's only recently that the dwarfs/dwarves spelling has shifted towards the latter, being that the 1937 publication of The Hobbit made the second spelling more known and acceptable (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs premiered exactly three months after the first edition of The Hobbit hit shelves, as a reference).


	74. February 1952

"Daddy! Daddy! Come _on_!" Wynn insisted. She pointed at the display of toys, filled with dolls from _Cinderella_ and _Alice and Wonderland_ , looking terribly distressed. "We can get Mummy one!"

"No, I don't think Mam would appreciate one of those," John smirked as he watched his children both dash into the department store's toy section. The floor they were on had been divided down the middle to give space to both the housewares department and children's toys. "I was thinking that maybe we can go and look for a new apron for her, or a nice tea set? Maybe some new ramekins?"

"…but Daaa _aaddy_ …" Davey whined. "Mummy reads us 'Alice in Wonderland' all the time! She _likes_ it!"

"And we don't sleep when we hear it, not like the Tokey book where the guy has hairy feets," Wynn added. The tips of her father's ears went red and he scowled in irritation.

"Oswynne Elena, you take that back this instant," he demanded. "Tolkien is a great literary mind and one day you'll look back on having him as your bedtime stories with fond memories." His daughter stuck her tongue out at him and ran over to the display of plush bears, nearly diving right into it. He then shot a look towards his son, who cringed in submission. The boy stood in place as John went and picked Wynn up and toss her over his shoulder, holding her in place as she kicked and beat her fists on his back, demanding to be put down.

"I wanna look at the teddy bears! I wanna look at the teddy bears! _I wanna look at the_ _ **teddy bears**_ _!_ " Wynn screeched in her father's ear. His face went red in embarrassment as they walked to the other side of the floor and began to examine some of the wares that were sitting there on the shelves, careful not to let the girl's flailing limbs come into contact with anything.

"Look at this set—this is nice," John said, pointing at a set of fine china. It was white with delicate red flowers painted on it. "What do you think, Davey?"

"It's okay, but kinda boring," the boy shouted over his sister. "Are you sure we can't get her an Alice doll?"

" _No_ ," his father replied firmly. "No toys this time. We need to get something _nice_." He felt a tap on the back of his shoulder not occupied by Wynn and turned around, only to see the floor manager. "Yes?"

"Sir, I hate to interrupt you, but is there a way you can keep your granddaughter quiet?" the manager asked. "She's disturbing the other customers."

"This is my _daughter_ , and I'm trying my best to keep her contained," John answered. He knit his brows and put on his best scowl in an attempt to make the manager leave. The man instead straightened his posture and cleared his throat.

"Then it is my displeasure to ask if you could kindly leave until a time where you can either return without her or when she is better-behaved," he said.

Worn thin, John sighed and reached his hand out towards Davey, who promptly latched on. "Looks like we have to go elsewhere, my boy. Come on now." The two of them walked towards the lift and went down to the ground floor, exiting the building with Wynn still sobbing into her father's shoulder.

"Where are we going to go _now_ , Daddy?" Davey asked as they wandered down the pavement. By now his sister was quiet, though flopping about listlessly as they went along. "Is there another store?"

"One left, and then we have to go home for the day," John replied. He hadn't counted on getting thrown out of three department stores that afternoon, considering how perfectly his children normally behaved, yet if it wasn't something with Wynn, it was something with Davey. His mother's ghost forbid that he have a problem with _both_ children, or he would have to be ready to be questioned by a constable for dragging to screaming toddlers from a shop. The only way it could have been worse would be if he and Clara hadn't been careful since their daughter's birth and he was dragging around _three_ children that refused to behave all at once— _that_ would have been a nightmare.

After letting the bairns run around in a nearby park for a few minutes, the three Smiths entered their last store of the outing. John bent down on a knee a bit of a way from the entrance and made sure Davey and Wynn looked presentable.

"Now _one peep_ out of either of you that causes the floor manager to look at us and you're getting not only a spanking when we get home, but an extra serving of veg at dinner as well," he warned. The threat of discipline usually worked well enough on its own, but he decided to add the extra layer of terror with the addition of more sprouts on their plates than they could stand. They nodded solemnly in understanding. "Okay, where are we going to look first?"

Both Davey and Wynn looked at one another sheepishly. What could they get? Everything that Daddy suggested was _horrid_ , but everything they suggested wasn't a good idea.

"Something pretty?" Wynn wondered. "Mummy likes pretty things."

"Yeah, she does," Davey agreed.

"Well, since there isn't a department called ' _pretty things'_ , where do you want to look first?"

Wynn's eyes went wide and she giggled as she blurted out "Dresses! Mummy likes pretty dresses!"

"Your mam does like dresses, and I don't think she's gotten a brand-new one in a long while," John nodded. "Let's go—which one of you can tell me which floor we should be on?"

The children both dashed over to the lifts and looked up at the placard that sat on the wall between them. They stared intently at the words, as if furrowing their tiny brows would make them read easier.

"Four!" Wynn shouted. "Ladies' stuff is on the fourth floor!"

"Then to the fourth floor we go," John said. They rode the lift up and found themselves in the ladies' department, filled with more clothes than the three knew they could look through in an afternoon. "How about we find a clerk to help us out? That might make things a little easier." He scanned the shop floor and saw a familiar face behind the counter, assisting another customer. "Well, now I didn't think she worked here."

"Who?" Davey asked.

"Miss Gwen," John replied. "I knew she had a new job, but she didn't say where. If we should ask anyone, it would be her." Leading his kids over towards the counter, they waited until the other customer was gone before they caught Gwen's attention. Once she saw them, her face lit up.

"Oh, Mr. Smith! This is a surprise!" she gasped happily, walking out from behind the counter to give him a hug. She picked up Wynn and they rubbed noses, giggling. "Where's Mrs. Smith?"

"We're shopping for Mummy's birthday present! It's next week!" Davey announced. Gwen nodded in understanding.

"My guess is that you want to buy her a new dress?" she asked as she put Wynn back down. "I doubt you'd be up here finding something for your Daddy."

"A dress is the best thing to an agreement we've been able to get all day," John explained. "We're getting Clara something nice, but as soon as we get anywhere near anything the kids think it's too _boring_ and it's causing a problem."

"That's because it all _is_ , Daddy," Wynn defended, stomping her foot in protest. "You pick boring things. We pick fun things."

"That is a problem then," Gwen agreed. "Have you thought about getting her two gifts? One from you and one from the kids?"

"Yeah, but, that's what we always do and I wanted to do something different this year, where we can all agree," John frowned. He sighed and glanced down at his children, both of whom were growing fidgety from all the wandering about. "Does anyone else ever come in with this problem?"

"They do, but no one is ever as unique as you are, Mr. Smith," Gwen chuckled. She checked her wristwatch and thought for a moment before nodding to herself. "I get off shift in half an hour. If you wait in the downstairs canteen, I can give you a break to shop by yourself."

"You don't have to do that…"

"…but I insist, _Dad_ ," she replied, arching her eyebrows sarcastically. "Something tells me that there won't be that much trouble with me in charge, will there?"

"Nuh-uh!" the kids answered, their excitement ready to bubble over and burst. Spending time with Miss Gwen was always a treat, while out and about in-town especially so.

Thanking her profusely, John then left the young woman to finish her work and brought his children to the small restaurant that was in the corner of the ground floor. He got himself a coffee and his kids some tea with milk and biscuits and waited until Gwen came in to greet them. She had changed out of her uniform dress into a skirt and blouse and tamed her curls into a hairband.

"Okay Mr. Smith, go ahead and I'll take care of things from here," she grinned, walking up to them. "Is there somewhere you'd like us to meet or should I take them home?"

"Home's fine, just not directly," he replied as he stood up. He handed her some money, a bit flustered with himself that he was even relying on her. "That should be enough for transport and a little extra in case you go anywhere."

"Thanks," Gwen said. She kissed John on the cheek and gently shoved him towards the door. "Go; get Mrs. Smith something nice."

"See you at home, Daddy!" Davey said.

Once he said goodbye John walked out into the department store and began to browse. He _could_ go back to the ladies' wear and pick out a dress, but the idea had been that with Davey and Wynn as his backups Clara couldn't say no to new clothes. Ramekins were nice, yet the ones she had were still new enough to where she'd be cross if he bought more, now that he thought about it. A nice set of china for tea was also probably out of the question, considering the ages of their children. Even the idea he had for an apron was a bit on the questionable side. He went up the lift and got out on the highest floor, hoping if he started at the top and work his way down, he'd find something eventually.

* * *

It was close to dinnertime as John pulled into the drive of his house, a giftwrapped package sitting on the seat next to him and a look of accomplishment on his face. He cheerily brought his purchase into the house to be greeted in the foyer by his wife.

"I _thought_ that was our heap of junk I heard outside," Clara said. She leaned into a quick kiss and made her way back towards the kitchen. "The kids are home, by the way."

"Good—I was about to ask after that," he said, following her through the house. Davey and Wynn were already sitting at the table, bouncing as they waited for their food to be done.

"Hi Daddy! Did you pick something nice for Mummy?" Wynn asked excitedly.

"Yes I did," he replied, glad that the reason behind the outing hadn't been a secret. "How was your afternoon with Miss Gwen?"

"It was fun!" Davey said. "We ran into Luke on his way back from work and Miss Gwen punched a man!"

John's mouth dropped open and his eyebrows arched in shock. "She _what_?"

"Someone called her 'Nanny' and she got really cross," Wynn stated. "Luke was with us after that and kept holding her arm. Why was she so cross?"

"Was that the nickname the one boy in Scotland gave her?" John asked Clara, attempting to avoid more questions with a well-placed lie. "It's been a while since I've read their letters."

"It might be," she replied. She eyed the box in her husband's hands and the corner of her mouth twitched upwards. "So, what did you get me?"

"It's a surprise," he smirked. "Unless you want to ruin it, I'd suggest you wait until your birthday."

"Fine, give it here," she groaned. Clara turned the stove burner down to low and sat down at her chair. John and the kids both watched her as she tore off the paper and opened the box inside.

The moment she saw what was inside, her hand went to her mouth as she gasped. Clara carefully removed the porcelain statue and sat it on the center of the table. It was of a medieval woman, with long ringlets of brown curls and a dress of flowing red. She looked like she was dancing, a cheerful smile on her face.

"It's beautiful," Clara said. "What made you think of this?"

"To be honest? It was the first thing I saw when I got off the lift that reminded me of you," John shrugged. He gingerly picked the statue back up and found a wind-up key at its base. He cranked it and set it back down, a tinny tune beginning to play from it. "You remember that one?"

She looked over at him with tears beginning to well in her eyes, shaking her head in affirmation. "The first song we danced to, in the pub."

" _'Ach, it's lovely roamin' in the gloamin'_ ," he said in rhythm with the music box. John then stood up and kissed Clara on the top of the head before shuffling over towards the stove. "What do we have tonight? Sprouts and tatties and a chunk of meat?"

"…that _you're_ going to serve after springing that on me," Clara sniffled as she cleaned up the wrapping and tossed it in the corner to be dealt with later. She left the statue on the table as a centerpiece, barely able to take her eyes off it.

"Consider it a done deal," John chuckled. He brought over the steamer pot and began dishing out sprouts, getting gagging noises from his children and a grab of his rear from his wife—she really should have waited until her birthday, but what was done was done.


	75. Summer 1952

It was an unusually warm day as Clara put together lunch for her and her family. The silence that permeated the house was relaxing—they were hosting young Orson Pink while his father and grandmother were up in Leeds. Danny had not been too keen on taking his son on a trip to see his father's grave, so he had asked if the Smiths could watch over him for the weekend. The more the merrier, John had said, and suddenly the house not only had an extra child scurrying about, but was subject to the young boy's aunts coming over at random.

"Kids! Lunch is ready!" she called out the kitchen window. The three children came thundering in moments later, bouncy and hungry from their game of tag. They began to attack their sandwiches with gusto and muffled thank yous.

' _Lunch now, manners later_?' Clara thought as she put together a tray. It contained not only her portion of lunch, but John's as well. She brought it upstairs and entered her husband's studio, where he was diligently working on his new project.

"Food's ready," she said, putting the tray down on a small corner of the table by the window. John wheeled his chair over and pulled his wife into his lap as they both began to tuck into their lunch.

"How are the kids behaving?" he asked between sandwich bites.

"Well enough," she replied. "I'm not sure what we're going to do when it comes to dinner though; unless we are going to pull the table off the wall and cram a couple people back there, we're going to have to use the dining room to eat."

"Having guests over is a special enough occasion, I should think," John nodded. "That way if Gwen decides to show up too there's room enough." The eldest Miller was supposed to have an afternoon shift, he was told, and it was up in the air whether or not she was coming over for dinner or going straight back home to rest. Ruby, however, was due sometime later in the afternoon to help with dinner and putting her nephew to bed.

"We have two two-year-olds and a three-year-old; if they make a mess in there, you'll clean it up," Clara said. She took another bite of sandwich and rested her head against John's shoulder. "I'm so glad that they can just go out and play in the back garden—Orson is so full of energy he rivals Wynn."

"Rivaling our Wynn when it comes to _anything_ is no small feat," he chuckled. "They should be classmates, right? Can you imagine the fights they're going to get into?"

"They might be, but… oh no… we're not going to have a moment of quiet, are we?" she groaned. John licked the salad cream off his lips before kissing the top of his wife's head.

"Have them sign the peace treaties early, dearest."

"I'll throttle them before they need a peace treaty."

The adults silently continued their lunch, finishing off their tea and sandwiches in relative peace. Once they were finished and wrapped up in one another's arms to revel in the silence, a door slammed loudly, jolting them both from a state of drowsiness.

"I'll go see about that," Clara sighed, kissing John on the lips. He made a noise in affirmation and stretched, preparing himself to get back to work.

Lunch tray in-hand, she went downstairs and took a quick glance around the main floor. Nothing seemed out of place and no one was there. Clara shook her head, thinking it was only the kids, and went to the back of the house to begin cleaning up the dishes. She nearly dropped the tray in surprise when she entered the kitchen and saw Ruby sitting at the table, banging her head against the wooden surface.

"Ruby! What are you doing?!" Clara gasped. She put the tray down on the counter and went over to the teen, wedging her hand between the table and afflicted forehead. Lifting her head up, she looked the younger woman in the eyes and put on her best concerned face. "Now, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me. Something's the matter, or you wouldn't have slammed the door."

"Oh… I'm sorry," Ruby frowned. "I guess I didn't realize I closed it that hard."

"That's alright. Now, are you hungry?" Clara offered. Ruby shook her head. "That's fine. Just know that once you're ready to tell me what's going on, then I'm here to talk. "Until then, you have to help me clean up lunch."

"Okay." The two then began to wash dishes and straighten up the kitchen. They were on to peeling potatoes for that night's dinner when the kids came running back in claiming boredom. Ruby took it as a blessing in disguise and brought them up to the nursery in order to play; any distraction was a welcome one. By the time John came down to get a drink of water, the potatoes were peeled and carrots were being chopped in preparation.

"How's it going?" he asked, moving directly towards the cupboard, and then the sink. "It's not like you to get the veg done early."

"Ruby's here already, and she seems a bit upset," Clara explained. "I'm trying to do as much as I can now so that if she does feel like leaving the kids alone and talking, I don't have to worry much about dinner. She adores you—why don't you ask her what's going on?"

"That's probably something for Rupert and Lucie to dive into, not us," John said. He cringed as his wife shot him a glare from across the kitchen.

"Ask her. I don't care, because you're the one who she calls 'Dad'…"

"…only because she can't even remember her real father that well…"

"…then all the better. She needs a father— _go parent her_."

John opened his mouth to protest further, yet stopped when Clara pointed her chopping knife in his direction. He put his glass in the sink and went upstairs to the nursery, where Ruby was watching over Wynn and Davey while they played with their paper dolls and Orson as he attempted to scribble a picture of the family flat. He was having a difficult time as he gripped the crayon and moved it slowly across the paper.

"Ahem, Ruby? Can I ask you something?"

The teen looked up and grinned. "Oh, sure Mr. Smith. Just a second." She corrected her nephew's grip on his crayon and stood up so that she could walk out into the hallway. "What's the matter?"

"Clara says that you're upset about something and won't tell her what. Is everything alright?" he asked, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. "Do you need to phone up your mam?"

"No, no, it's okay Mr. Smith. It's nothing, really," she replied, avoiding eye contact.

"If it was truly nothing, you wouldn't be upset about it."

"It's more of a girl thing."

"Try me," John said flatly. "You'd be surprised how often girl things and guy things overlap."

Ruby winced and curled her upper lip, not wanting to give in but doing so anyway. "When I went home to get my things, I walked in on Gwen snogging her new boyfriend in our room."

"Oh, is that all? That's normal," he smirked. "I've walked in on people doing a whole lot more than a rough snog, so consider yourself lucky." He saw that her expression hadn't changed. "What? Was it a boy you were after?"

"No…"

"A boy you dislike?"

"No…"

"Then stop looking so glum. Didn't your mam ever tell you that your face'll get stuck like that if you leave it too long?"

"Um…" She closed the door to the nursery until it was open just a crack and dropped her voice down low. "Promise you won't get cross?"

"Why would I get cross?"

"Because of _who_ it was Gwen was snogging!"

"You're being incredibly secretive over nothing at all; it was her boyfriend, you said so."

"My _best friend_ ," Ruby hissed. She watched as John's eyes went wide and his brows arch as he pieced it all together.

"Whoa, wait, what… Luke? My sister's boy?"

"Yes!"

"…but I thought you two saw him like a brother or a cousin…"

" ** _I_** did, but that apparently hadn't registered with either of them! What am I going to do Mr. Smith?! Mr. Smith…?" She tried getting her father figure's attention, but he seemed frozen. Not even waving her hand in front of his face seemed to work. In a panic, the teen rushed back down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Clara was making tea out of sheer boredom. "Mrs. Smith! Mr. Smith and I were talking and now he won't respond!"

"…what in the world did you say?" Clara wondered.

"He wanted to know why I was upset and I told him and now I think he's in shock," Ruby replied, it all spilling out at once. She saw the look on Clara—eyebrow raised and head cocked slightly—and grimaced. "I walked in on Gwen snogging Luke and now Mr. Smith's upset."

"I can't leave _any_ of you alone, can I?" Clara groaned. She marched past the teen and back up the stairs, where she found her husband still in a state of shock. "Hello? Earth to John, come in John." She snapped her fingers in front of him, forcing him out of his stupor. "Are you really that upset?"

"Who said I was upset?" he asked, attempting to sound offended. "I'm not upset. I'm perfectly alright. Why would I be upset?"

"That we're currently looking after what might be your sister's future in-laws," she deadpanned. "It's not that bad."

"I never said anything of the sort," John defended. "Sarah Jane will be _delighted_." He then perked up and went into the nursery, coming out moments later with a protesting Wynn over his shoulder.

"…but Daddy! We wanna play storybook!" she whined.

"No sweetling; boys are icky," he said sternly, headed towards his studio. "Now we need to discuss colors." As soon as the door closed shut, Ruby poked her head out from the stairwell and looked over at Clara.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"You know Mr. Smith—everything turns into a crisis, even when it truly isn't." Clara walked over to the stairs and joined the young woman as they descended to the ground floor. "No harm done, though I think you just killed the concept of the nursery in this house." She rolled her eyes and laughed. "To think this is what he's like with Luke and Gwen… imagine what he's going to be like when a boy starts after Wynn, or Davey has his eyes set on a girl."

"Oh…" Ruby said. She slowly nodded her head in agreement, understanding full-well the protective rage that was beginning to fester. "It'll be a nightmare." The two went back into the kitchen to tend to the boiling kettle and talk things over, while John helped a confused Wynn pick out what color they were to paint the guest room when it became _her room_ , and Davey and Orson sat in the nursery, utterly confused as to why their playmate had to be taken away.


	76. Early October 1952

The sun filtered through the window of John's studio, warming it gently despite the brisk weather. Scratching at his two-day-old beard, the man wondered what he needed to do in order to make the new script he was working on "pop", as Mr. Brown would say. He was trying to do something different—the company had wanted him to put the Timmy the Tiger stories down for a short while. That was fine to John, except it was becoming increasingly difficult to whip something up that he and his editor could both agree on.

Leaning back in his chair, John swiveled around to see how his children were doing. Wynn had a coloring book and was filling it in carefully, while Davey was holding a pencil and attempting to copy a handwritten sentence of Clara's. His tongue stuck out in concentration as his penmanship remained shaky, blocky, and huge. They both laid on pillows and blankets in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

"How are things coming along?" John asked.

"Okay, I think," Davey muttered. "Mummy says I have to write neat to go to school next year, but it's really hard."

"We all have to learn how to write neatly; it just takes practice."

"Practice takes too long," the boy groused. "How do you write so well, Daddy?"

"Lots and lots of practice," John explained. Davey allowed himself to fall backwards into his blanket and whimpered. "Wynn, sweetling, how are you doing?"

"Good, Daddy," she replied. She put down her crayon and showed her father the drawing she was working on: her playing with Jenny from next door. John could tell it was Jenny because she had also drawn a tiny Vastra in the corner, the woman being the only person the kids colored with green skin. "See? We're having a tea party!"

"That's very good." He then heard the front door open and close downstairs, prompting him to grin. "Hey, I think your Mam's back home from shopping. Why don't you go see if you can help?"

"I'm gonna stay here and practice," Davey protested. His sister stuck out her tongue and stood up to leave and go help, closing the door to the studio behind her. Wynn sat down on the very top step and scooted forward until she slid onto the next step, traveling down the stairs that way until she reached the very bottom. She then jumped up and rushed into the kitchen.

"Can I help, Mummy?" she asked. The little girl gasped, however, when she saw that they had a visitor. "Auntie Sarah Jane! Auntie Sarah Jane! You're here!" Wynn bounced up to where her aunt was seated and crawled into her lap, giving her a big hug.

"See? I knew _someone_ would be happy to see me," Sarah Jane chuckled. She let Wynn out of her grasp and watched as she took a box from her mother and put it away in a low cupboard. "You have such the little helper, Clara."

"I would mind some neighborhood kids when I was young for some extra pocket money," Clara said, watching her daughter. "Their mums would give me advice, and one of the best things they told me was to get the kids involved in chores young. By the time Wynn's in school, I should be able to have them putting away groceries without help and bringing laundry downstairs."

"And I clean my room, Mummy! Don't forget that!" the girl added proudly. She then tilted her head and stared at the tin in Clara's hand. "What's that?"

"Oh, this? It's some tea I got at the market," Clara explained. She bent down and handed her the box, letting her turn it over and examine it closely. "I should take you to the market—it's really big and there are _many_ different kinds of teas there."

"…but we can only get stamp-tea," Wynn said. She blinked in confusion as Clara shook her head.

"Not anymore. Tea came off rations now, so we can buy all the tea we want," she said. The girl's eyes went wide.

" _All the tea we want…?_ "

"Yup; all the tea we want."

"This is big news!" she squealed. Wynn dashed out of the room, leaving Clara and Sarah Jane to themselves.

"I take it we have a young tea aficionado in the family?" Sarah Jane laughed.

"Two—both the kids can barely get enough of the stuff," Clara said as she finished off putting away groceries and put the kettle on. "I almost want to take them off milk and sugar because of how much they drink it, but I don't know how well that would go over…"

"If I could learn how to drink my tea straight, then they can too. A Smith can and will surprise you if you don't keep an eye on us for long enough," Sarah Jane shrugged.

"Yeah, but you learned as an adult when the First World War broke out. The kids…"

"Need to learn because of a leftover from the Second World War. It could be worse."

"I guess…" Clara sat down and allowed her head to sink to the tabletop. "I'll just be glad when the kids are old enough to where I'm not doing everything for them and I can get in some time to myself."

"Make John help out," Sarah Jane suggested. "He adores the kids."

"Well, if it isn't me watching over them, it's him, and some of the time I'd like to spend _as a couple_ ," Clara grumbled. "I don't know about you, but some of us actually _want_ a daytime shag now and then." It was all Sarah Jane could manage to not burst into hysteric laughter.

Just then, both Davey and Wynn came rushing into the kitchen, crawling up onto one of the chairs. Wynn grabbed the tea tin and showed it to her brother, who marveled at it.

"See? I _told_ you Mummy bought tea that wasn't stamp-tea!" she said. "She said we can have as much as we want!"

"No, I said that we can _buy_ as much as we want," Clara clarified. "There's a big difference."

"Like our little cakes?" Davey asked. He knew that in a cupboard there was a small box of snacks that he and his sister were allowed to take whenever they wanted, but once they were gone, they were _gone_ until Mummy bought more and sometimes Mummy went _a long time_ without buying any.

"Exactly like your little cakes. Now be good and say hello to your auntie." The boy hopped off the chair and walked around to where Sarah Jane sat, reluctantly giving her a hug.

"Is Luke coming?" he asked.

"No; Luke has classes today," Sarah Jane said. "Your mum and I ran into each other at the store, so I came over for a visit. Next time Luke or Ruby come over, you should ask them what they're learning about; I bet it's interesting."

"It _is_ interesting!" Wynn gasped. "Ruby fixeded Daddy's old radio! _Daddy_ couldn't even fix his old radio! Luke says that they know how the telly works, and how… and how we can talk to Granddad when we're in London and he's in Blackpool, and lots of stuff!"

"They _are_ very clever, aren't they?" Sarah Jane said. "Do you think you can be as clever as Luke and Ruby when you get older?"

"Even _cleverer_ ," Wynn insisted. She saw that Clara was tending to the kettle and held up the tea tin. "Can we have the new tea, Mummy?"

"If you bring it here, then of course we can," she replied. Wynn leapt off the chair and rushed over to her mother, holding the tea tin high above her head. Both she and Davey waited only half-patiently as the tea steeped and Clara prepared their mugs. Once their tea was ready and set in front of them, the children knocked back the tea as a full-grown adult might a pint of lager.

"Thanks, Mummy!" they said in chorus as they ran back out of the kitchen. Clara and Sarah Jane both looked at one another with blank expressions, the latter in disbelief while the former deadly serious.

"Be glad you gained custody of Luke when he was eleven, and you missed out on these days," Clara deadpanned. "I love both my children, but just _watching_ them wears me out sometimes."

"Considering it wore me out watching _Johnny_ despite being only seven years older, I think I can imagine how it feels," Sarah Jane sighed. The two women then continued talking as they drank their tea, only interrupted by Davey and Wynn coming back with a couple of books in their hands.

"Auntie Sarah Jane, can you read to us?" Wynn pleaded. Sarah Jane finished off what was in her cup and shook her head.

"Sorry—I've got to get home soon, or your cousin Luke is going to revert to what all Smith men do in a crisis and binge on sandwiches," she said. "I promise I'll read to you when you come over on Sunday, okay?"

"Okay," Wynn muttered.

"Here, I'll read to you, but only one because Mummy's tired and still needs to get dinner together," Clara said. "Say goodbye and wait in the sitting room." The kids did so and as soon as they were out of earshot she had to fight back a huge yawn. "Now that I know the supermarket's so large, I'll make sure I don't try to make a quick stop of it on less than a couple hours' sleep."

"Then you better get going on that reading or you'll burn yourself on the stove half-asleep," Sarah Jane replied. "I'll just go up and say hello to John and show myself out."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. Just go on." She ushered her sister-in-law out of the room and crept up the stairs to find her brother hard at work. "There you are you wee thing. Couldn't come down and say hello?"

"The kids did say something about there being a dusty old hag in the kitchen, now that I recall," John snarked. He stood up and gave his sister a hug. "What's the occasion?"

"Oh, just passed by Clara as I was coming back from the office and she back from shopping," she said. "Just over long enough for a cup of tea, to be honest."

"Then I won't keep you," he said. He then followed Sarah Jane down the stairs and saw her downstairs, making sure she got out alright.

As he closed the front door, John noticed something peculiar: how quiet it was in the house. It was late in the afternoon, meaning that even if the children were reading quietly, he should have heard Clara doing _something_. He poked his head in the sitting room and found the answer to his query: his wife and kids were curled up on the couch, a child on each side of their mother, as they slept soundly. John _knew_ why Clara was tired—it was the same reason why he was exhausted and hadn't gotten much sleep the night before—but to see that Davey and Wynn were both dead-asleep as well made him chuckle silently to himself. He padded up the stairs, skipping the one that creaked loudly, and returned with a sketchbook and freshly-sharpened pencil. Sitting down on the couch opposite his family, he began to draw them as they remained incredibly still for young children and their busy mother.

Just as he was finishing up, John noticed Clara stir from her nap. She let go of the book in her hands and stretched, careful not to wake the kids snuggled into her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, keeping her voice low. John stood and brought the sketchbook over, showing her his work. "Oh good; you got my intimate side."

"Every side is your intimate side," he murmured, leaning in for a kiss. "Though maybe we should keep the intimacy level down tonight—been struggling to stay awake all day."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," she replied, still in her nap-gained haze. "Make dinner? It's sausage and whatever else you want with it."

"It would be my pleasure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As noted back in chapter forty-three, supermarkets didn't take off in the UK until the early 1950s. If people haven't been to one at this time, they're starting to make their first visits as Clara did here. Also, thanks to postwar austerity, things were still being rationed, hence Wynn's confusion about "stamp-tea" (often the ration coupons were stamped once used).


	77. April 1953

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Collette," Clara groaned. She sank further into the armchair and hugged the phone base with her left arm as her right kept the receiver to her ear. "I feel like I'm going to go mad before too long."

" _You and John both are always so overdramatic that you're perfect for one another_ ," the woman on the other end of the line chuckled. " _I thought you had book club and friends in the neighborhood_."

"Well, yeah, but there should be more to me than book club and going to the cinema once a month," she grumbled. "You made the transition from career-woman to housewife without a problem—what's the secret? Tell me."

" _There is no secret_ ," Collette said. " _Duncan and I both do things around the house and with Donny, but it's just that I happen to do more during the week and he takes care of the weekends. A lot of women our age have had to get used to being at home again_."

"The thing is that I never _was_ at home to start." Clara twirled the phone cord around her finger as she wrinkled her nose. "My entire adult life until John and I moved into this house involved working. I had decent pay, an enriching job, and a husband that actually encouraged it! Now I'm finding that staring at the walls between errands and cooking and taking care of the kids is relaxing. That _shouldn't_ be relaxing!"

The other end went silent for a moment as Collette pondered her response. " _What if you went back to work?_ "

"Can't—you'd think that between all the potential sitters I've got there'd be someone with an open enough schedule to help out, or even a full schedule between them, but the closest I've got is Lucie and her arthritis has been getting bad lately. She couldn't watch after three kids in her state, even if it didn't make me feel guilty dropping Davey and Wynn off."

" _That's right, she's got her grandson she watches after; Orson?_ "

"Yeah, and sometimes she almost shouldn't be handling him."

" _How about the neighbors?_ "

"Either they're too busy with their own lives or they're Strax. You remember Strax. It'd be different if Jenny and Vastra weren't always on-call with Scotland Yard, but he's just too dangerous when left alone. Wouldn't do a thing to purposely hurt my children and is always ready to help…"

"… _but trouble follows him. I remember plain enough_." A pause. " _How about your dad? Isn't he close to retirement?_ "

"Considered that too, since that should be a couple years away, but the only ways I'm getting him out of Blackpool are either with a court order or a wooden box."

" _Gosh, that_ _ **is**_ _stubbornness. I take it that's where you get it from?_ "

"That's only because you never met my mum," Clara laughed. She heard the front door open and the sound of tiny feet stomping up the stairs. "Oh, kids are home. Say hi to the boys for me?"

" _Only if you do the same on your end_."

After saying their goodbyes, the friends hung up the phone. Gathering up the cord, Clara placed the device back on its table in the corner and went to the foyer to see Luke helping Gwen out of her coat. "So, how was the film?"

"It's a miracle we were allowed to stay through the entire thing, since there was a popcorn war going on between the kids and some other hellions that were there," Gwen frowned.

"Th-they were just having a bit of f-fun," Luke said as he hung up his own coat. We went over to his aunt and bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. "It hadn't even s-started yet."

"…and I'm just saying that had it been just Orson and me we would have been _thrown out_ without a second thought," Gwen retorted. She gave Clara a hug and an exasperated smile. "How was your afternoon? Kids gone and husband at the office; it must have been quiet."

"Took a call from a Glasgow friend, but otherwise it was just a bunch of housework," she groaned. Leading the two into the kitchen, Clara began to put together some tea. "It's going to be so _good_ when Davey and Wynn go to stay with my dad this summer—it'll be the most relaxing week I've had in years."

"Now that I will believe," Gwen chuckled. She sat down next to Luke at the table and took his hand in hers. "Are you _sure_ you don't want us to take your kids along when we go to the seaside next month? It's not like we don't have Orson and Ruby and Danny _and_ Mum already…"

"It's a _family_ holiday, not a _family-and-like-family_ holiday," Clara insisted. "Besides, if you make a habit of taking them everywhere now, then you'll never be able to get rid of them later."

"You make it sound like a bad thing," Gwen said. Just then, the three kids came barreling down the stairs and through the kitchen. Davey was holding a coat hanger in one of his hands, while Orson and Wynn chased after him, all three engulfed in giggles.

"Come on, Tink! Let's get the old codfish!" Orson shouted as they ran laps around the room.

"Tink-tink-tink!" the girl yelled. They all then rushed out the door to the back garden, leaving the adults to stare at one another in silence.

"That w-was in the m-movie," Luke explained. He tried to shrug it off, but was met with his aunt's critical glare.

"If those two are going to keep on about it, I may end up trying to find a way to send them off to Neverland," she huffed. Clara poured the now-boiling water in the pot for tea and brought it over to the table. "I'm getting cabin fever."

"C-can't you g-go on holiday as well?" he asked.

"I don't think Clara means something as simple as a holiday," Gwen sighed. She accepted a tea cup and held it up to her nose, taking in the scent. "Some women aren't meant to stay at home all day—your mum is one of them, so it doesn't surprise me that your aunt is too."

"Oh, yeah," Luke nodded. "Does Uncle John know how you feel?"

"I worked throughout the war and supported him while he focused on getting back into illustration, so I'm sure he has an idea," Clara said. "Things were different then and we only had to worry about ourselves. Now…" She glanced towards the window and exhaled heavily. "The kids are still too young, but how old is old enough?"

"Maybe if you tell him straight-out now, he'd take over watching the kids during the day," Gwen suggested. "I mean, he was more than happy to take care of Ruby and me, and now he stays home with the kids when you run errands."

"…but running errands or having a day off isn't the same as making it a permanent routine—it wouldn't be fair to either John or the kids, especially since Davey starts school in September."

"That's right," Luke said. "P-picking him up and d-dropping him off would t-take time."

"Too much time, which doesn't include taking care of Wynn's needs during the day, let alone his own, and Uncle John needs to meet his deadlines," Clara said. The children then ran back into the house, Davey and Wynn immediately becoming distracted by the tea.

"Mummy! Can we have some tea?!" the little girl gasped, bouncing in place. "Please, please, please, please, _pleeeaaassssse_?!"

"I'll g-get it," Luke offered. Wynn led Orson to the sitting room to wait, while Davey grabbed some little cakes from the cupboard and followed close behind.

"See? They're just too much right now," Clara moaned. She slumped against her chair while her nephew readied three small mugs of tea. "I love my children, and I wouldn't trade them for anything, but they're driving me insane with the energetic monotony." As soon as Luke brought the tea out to the children, she sat back up and leaned in towards Gwen. "Whether you end up with my nephew or not isn't the issue as long as you're both happy, but I hope you're taking notes."

"Don't worry—we're aware," she smirked. Luke then walked back into the kitchen carrying three empty mugs, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

"Th-they're not normal Aunt C-Clara," he shuddered. "T-Tea shouldn't go down that quickly."

"It won't once I start making them take it without milk," Clara deadpanned. "Are the three of you staying for dinner? I think I'm going to need some reinforcements tonight."

"Is Uncle John not c-coming?" Luke asked. The front door opened and shut and a chorus of "Daddy!" filled the air. Clara silently counted down on her fingers from five and at one, pointed at the kitchen door. In came John, a bairn hanging off each arm and Orson tailing closely.

"You didn't tell me the kids were going to go see Peter Pan today!" he gaped. "Luke, Gwen, was it good?! Please tell me how the animation went! Were the backgrounds watercolors or mattes? Should I invest in a copy?"

"Daddy, Daddy! Can you play Captain Hook?" Wynn asked. "If you play Captain Hook, then Davey can be Smee!"

"That's a great idea!" John agreed. He took the coat hanger from his son and fit the hook between his fingers, chasing after the shrieking children. Gwen and Luke both looked at Clara, who sighed loudly before downing the rest of her tea in one go.

"That's why," she mumbled.


	78. Late June 1953

"Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh, this is so _exciting_!" Wynn squealed. She skipped along the pavement a few paces ahead of her mother and brother as they made the walk down to the primary school. "Aren't you excited, Davey?! You get to go to _school_!"

"Kinda," he replied, holding Clara's hand a bit tighter. While eager about the prospect at first, the closer and closer they got to making school a reality, the more often he began to have second thoughts. "What about you and Mummy? What will you do?"

"The stuff that we normally do," Clara explained. "School is only for a few hours a day, so you won't miss out on much. Remember how I taught primary school?"

"In Scotland, yeah," he replied quietly.

"Well, plenty of kids had a lot of fun while at school."

"…but what if I don't make any friends?" Davey wondered. "No one else on the street is going to start school! What if no one likes me?"

"I'm sure _someone_ will be your friend," Clara assured. She bent down and pointed at a building a little ways away. "Look, there's your school."

Whimpering, Davey allowed his mother to drag him along closer to the dreaded brick and mortar structure. Inside they navigated the empty corridors until they came to an office where a plump middle-aged lady was sitting at a desk.

"Year One sign-ups?" Clara asked.

"You've come to the right place," the secretary said. She reached into a metal filing cabinet and plucked a packet of papers from a folder. "Both of them, Mrs…?"

"Smith, and just my son," she replied. "Do you want me to fill it out here, or…?"

"Here's fine; I've got a pen if you need one." Clara thanked her and began writing in the form with Davey's information. The kids went around the desk and looked at the secretary's workspace.

"It's like the desk the people sit at in the front of Daddy's work," Wynn stated. The secretary glanced at the kids and chuckled.

"Is it okay with your mummy if you have a sweet?" she asked. With Clara's approval, she took a small tin from her desk drawer and let Davey and Wynn each pick one piece of licorice. "So are you excited to be going to school, young man?"

"Nuh-uh," he replied.

" _Davey_ , you're almost _five_ ," Wynn whined. "Don't be so scared."

The secretary chuckled at that, patting the little girl on the head. "All grown-up and ready to face the world; and how old are you, my dear?"

"Three, but I'm four in August!" Wynn announced. "Davey is five in _September_! That's why he's not in school yet!"

"Your birthday is in August?" the secretary repeated. When Wynn nodded in affirmation, she took another set of papers out of the drawer and set it by Clara. "I'm glad she said something, Mrs. Smith— _both_ your son and daughter have to be enrolled this term."

"My husband and I talked about it, and we think she's still a little young for school," Clara said, attempting to keep a positive air. "We're going to enroll her next year…"

"I'm sorry, but the school is very strict about when children in the catchment start," the secretary retorted. "It's not my policy, but the school's. I don't know how they did it in the north, but in London the rules are steadfast."

"I used to be a primary teacher myself, so I think I know the rules," Clara replied. She gave the secretary a smile—small and irritated—and pushed the extra set of papers back towards her. "Wynn will start school next year."

"Not unless you opt into a different school—I'm only this insistent because you'll get in trouble otherwise, ma'am."

"Fine," Clara huffed. "I'm going to finish these at home, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." The secretary watched as the frustrated mother collected her children and their paperwork, leaving in a miniature fury.

"Mummy, what did the lady mean by 'catchment'?" Wynn wondered as the three walked back home.

"The area that a school accepts students from," Clara said brusquely. "Oh, I'm going to have a few words about this to the board…"

"…but didn't the lady also say that Wynnie needs to start school too?" Davey asked, his mother's tone going straight over his head. "I thought she was going next year."

"Yeah! Why can't I go with Davey? We're always together!"

"You can't because _I say so_ ," Clara stated plainly. The children were quiet the rest of the way home, tears silently going down Wynn's cheeks as they went along. The moment they were in the front door of the house, she bolted up the stairs and hid in her room.

"Mummy, Wynnie's sad," Davey explained as he took off his shoes. He put them neatly by the door and straightened up his sister's hastily discarded pair. "Why do you say she can't go to school with me?"

"Because it will be a lot harder on the both of you if you're in the same class," Clara explained. She pat her son on the head, unsure how to explain it further than that. "You're the eldest, so there are some things you should do first, like go to school."

"If that's what you say," Davey shrugged. He went into the sitting room to pick up where he had left off in his book. Taking the registration papers out of her purse, his mother groaned, knowing she was in for a long year ahead.

* * *

Dinner started off deathly silent, a rarity for the Smiths. Wynn sat slumped in her chair, pouting angrily as she picked at her food, while Davey ate awkwardly and Clara attempted to ignore the fact anything was even happening. John, thoroughly confused by the situation, tried to put things together before breaking down and asking.

"Okay, what's going on? Is there a punishment I don't know about?"

"Yeah: I can't go to school," Wynn grumbled.

"I told you that you're too young," Clara retorted.

"…but the lady said I'm not! She wants me to go!"

"…and she is not your mother. Now eat your dinner." Wynn shoved her plate away in protest, squeaking defiantly. "Oswynne Elena, you are going to stay in your chair until you either eat or it is bedtime, do I make myself clear?"

"Who said she should go?" John wondered. Clara narrowed her eyes at their daughter and unconsciously stabbed her spouts with excessive force.

"The secretary at the school," she snipped. "We're _apparently_ not allowed to send our daughter to school a year later than our son according to her, but I'm going to have a talk with the headmaster and see if we can bend the rules a little bit…"

"That _cheating_! Don't cheat Mummy!"

"I am _not_ cheating if I go through the proper..."

"Bending rules is cheating!" Wynn took a forkful of mashed potatoes and flung them at Clara, hitting her square in the face. "Cheater, cheater, tater eater!"

The whole kitchen fell still as the potatoes covering Clara's face slid off and plopped into her lap. The boys were too stunned to move, but _Clara_ , however…

"That's **_it_**!" she screamed. Wynn blanched and slid from her chair, running out of the room as fast as her legs could move. Her mother threw down her napkin and chased after her, red-faced and fuming, shouting as she went through the house in pursuit.

"David…?" John asked. "I've figured what's happening, but please tell me what's going on in _your words_."

"Mummy took Wynnie and me to sign me up for school and the secretary lady said that we both need to sign up and that rules are rules, but Mummy didn't like that too much because it didn't go her way," the boy said. "When she said that, Wynnie got upset because she wants to go to school too and they've been fighting all day." He pushed his sprouts around on his plate, pensive. "Do you know why Wynnie can't go to school with me?"

"It's not so much that she _can't_ as it is that your mam and I think it might be better to keep her back an extra year," John explained. "Would you really like your little sister in classes with you?"

"She's my little sister, but I don't remember not being with her," Davey shrugged. "I don't see the problem, but it makes both Mummy and Wynnie really cross."

"We sort of figured it would make your sister upset, but Mam used to work in a primary school so I'm fairly sure she knows what she's doing." He looked at his son and exhaled heavily. "You know that's how we met, right?"

"You did…?" His eyes grew nearly as wide as his dinner plate.

"That we did—she was a teacher who moved to Clydebank when I lived there alone. Gwen and Ruby were even two of her students that stayed with us for a spell." John cut a piece of his pork chop and popped it in his mouth. "I haven't had to deal with school since I went to university, so I trust your mam when it comes to these things, since not only was she in school much more recently, but she worked in one."

"Mummy was little when you graduated drawing school, right Daddy?" Davey asked. The tips of John's ears went red as he tried not to choke on his food.

"Actually, your granddad and gran hadn't met yet, so your mam wasn't even born," he blushed. Thankfully, Clara came back and thudded down in her seat, still fuming and looking like she was ready to kill, which ended all other conversation dead in its tracks.

"Wynn has bed without dinner and is grounded the entire rest of the week," she announced. "We do _not_ throw our food in this house."

"Yes Mummy," Davey agreed. The table remained discussion-free for the rest of the meal, the boy scampering off afterwards while his parents cleared the dishes.

"Clara, are you sure about this?" John asked gently. He covered Wynn's plate and put it in the refrigerator for later. "Our daughter's smart— _scary-smart_ —she can handle being the youngest in her level. If we could have put Davey in last year he would have been able to handle it."

"I agree that both the kids are capable of doing amazingly well in school, but Wynn and Davey both would benefit from her staying behind an extra year," Clara stated, the finality heavy in her voice. She rinsed off the other plates and placed them in the hot soap-water. It wasn't something that was up in the air; the decision had been made. "Once I can petition the governors, I believe that my reasoning will be sound enough for them."

"Are you sure?" He put his hands on her hips and rested his chin atop her head. "I try not to question you in these matters, but it just doesn't _feel_ right…"

"It doesn't feel right because our babies are growing up," she replied, continuing on with the dishes. "They have to learn to do things without one another and they're never going to learn if they keep staying together."

"They have separate rooms—it'll come eventually," John assured. He looked into window and caught the reflection of their son sneaking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and dashing quickly from the room. "Davey says he doesn't mind, and the only time he _will_ mind is going to be when they're both going through their difficult phase."

"Please don't remind me of the difficult phase," Clara groaned. She turned around and put her dishwater hands on her husband's face, pulling him down for a kiss. "I'm just trying to do what's right by them."

"I know."

"Then let me do the decision-making in this, yeah?"

He nodded, pressing against his wife in another kiss. "I'm going to finish up something in the studio; meet up on the usual couch?"

"Sounds like a plan," she smirked. John then left the kitchen and went up the stairs. Instead of heading to his studio, however, he pressed his ear against the door to his daughter's room. When he couldn't hear anything, he knocked softly. "Wynn? Can Daddy come in, sweetling?"

"Yeah!" she replied, sounding as if she'd had a good cry. John opened the door to find that Davey was there too, the both of them sitting on the floor. Wynn's face was red and wet with tears, though it appeared that her cheeks were full of something he hoped was edible. Sitting down next to his children, John waited patiently for them to begin talking.

"Daddy, did you change Mummy's mind?" Davey asked. His sister sat there and sniffled, chewing slowly on the unseen food.

"No—once Mam makes a decision, the only one that can change it is her," he said. "How are the two of you doing? Knowing you have to leave Wynn behind must be a scary thought."

"It's not fair," Wynn muttered. She swallowed hard, emptying her mouth, and coughed slightly. "I wanna go."

"Your mam isn't trying to be mean, I hope you both know that," John said, petting his daughter's hair. The older she got, the fluffier it was becoming, making him certain that his unruly hair had survived through at least one more generation. "She's incredibly clever, and tries to do the right thing, even if it's a hard thing."

"Well, I don't want to stay home if Davey's not either," Wynn cried. She snuggled into her father's side, holding onto him tightly. "Maybe if I go live with Auntie Sarah Jane, she'll let me go."

"Live with your auntie?" John blinked. "Why, if you go live with your auntie and you'll have to sit there and watch Luke and Gwen kiss all the time, and you'll have to learn to make dinner for when Auntie Sarah Jane doesn't come home from the paper in time."

"Oh…"

"What about Mrs. Miller?" Davey asked in an attempt to be helpful. John just shook his head.

"She'd have to share her room with Orson and his dad, and there's still the problem with Luke and Gwen kissing all day."

"Miss Jenny and Miss Vastra! They like me!" Wynn decided.

"Jenny and Vastra _also_ kiss a lot, though only when people from outside can't see them, and Strax would be your new mam. Do you really want Mr. Strax as your new mam?"

"No…" the little girl sighed dejectedly. "I just don't want to miss the fun."

"…and you won't—you'll have plenty of fun, but only when Mam says you're ready, okay?" John felt his daughter nod into his chest, which prompted him to rub her back in an effort to further soothe her. "Hey, why don't you finish that apple and go to bed, and I'll bin the core for you."

Davey's jaw dropped. "How did you…?"

"Nuh-uh." John put a finger to the side of his nose and winked. "I'll tell you when _you_ have wee rascals to watch over." As he stood up, Wynn dove beneath her pillow and began hastily chomping off apple chunks while her brother went to her bookshelf and began to pull off some of her favorite stories.

"Here! Done, Daddy!" Wynn announced, holding out the apple core. John took it and watched as she climbed into bed, with Davey not far behind.

"I'll read to you, okay?" the boy said as they both crept beneath the covers. The siblings snuggled in as their father gave them each a kiss on the forehead and quietly left the room. He was at the top of the stairs when he saw his wife at the bottom, glaring up at him with a decided lack of amusement.

"Clara...!" he groaned, beginning to walk towards her. She turned and left, only to be found sitting on the sitting room couch with a sour look on her face.

"Stop making me the bad guy," she frowned.

"What? I'm not making you the bad guy; if anything, I'm trying to _convince_ them you're not the bad guy."

"Well, by being the good guy, you're making me the bad guy by process of elimination," Clara reasoned. She crossed her arms and legs and exhaled heavily in irritation. "What's with the apple?"

"I was hungry," John lied. He took a bite of the browning flesh, only a nibble's worth thanks to their daughter, and pretended to eat as he wandered back towards the kitchen. "I guess I wasn't as full as I thought after dinner."

"Sure," Clara scoffed. She picked up the book club novel she had sitting on the coffee table and proceeded to give her husband the cold shoulder for the remainder of the evening. He _had_ said from the beginning that she was in charge of the children's education, that they would be a team when it came to things, but his way with their kids only made her feel like nothing she did was ever considered acceptable.

She had warmed back up enough to allow his embrace by bedtime, when he fell into the mattress after placing their sleeping son in his own room and contoured himself along her back, yet there was still the looming question about what to do. How was she going to handle things? Couldn't leave it to John—he sat in his studio all day and wouldn't even notice Davey's absence—and couldn't let the children dictate something as huge as this. What path they wanted to take in their schooling was for when they were a bit older, a bit more mature, but now they were only babies… _her babies_ … and she only wanted to do right by them.

* * *

Morning came and Clara left Davey and Wynn in their father's care as she went to drop paperwork off at the school. "In case things get a bit rough," she explained before marching back down the stairs and immediately out the front door. The kids brought their pillows and blankets into the studio and plopped down onto the rug, carefully using the time to draw and color. Eventually, Wynn left to get a drink of water, coming back with a confused look on her face.

"Daddy…? Mummy took both sets of papers," she said.

"Did she now?" he replied, not looking up from his sketch. "Now how do you know that?"

"She had both papers on the kitchen table after breakfast, and there's nothing in the trash bin," Wynn nodded.

"Maybe she's going to throw it at the secretary-lady," Davey mused, coloring in a tree. "I liked her; she gave us sweets."

"With your mam, anything goes," John sighed. He squinted at the sketch and took his spectacles from his breast pocket. Putting them on did a great deal of help, and he grinned privately as he continued his work. He and his children all worked diligently until the door to the house slamming shut jolted them away from focus.

"That woman _better_ start looking for another job soon or it's going to be a very long school year," Clara growled as she stormed up the stairs. She stopped in front of the open studio doorway, _lividly_ red in the face, and jammed her fists on her hips.

"…and…?" John asked. He and the kids all looked at her expectantly, awaiting an answer.

"One _toe_ out of line and Wynn is getting demoted to the level behind Davey _effective immediately_ ," she hissed. The little girl's eyes went wide as she jumped up and ran to give her mother a hug.

"Oh, _thank you_ Mummy!" she squealed. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you!_ "

"You're still grounded for the rest of the week for throwing food—I'm not changing that," Clara said. Wynn simply looked up at her, beaming.

"That's okay! I should get to practicing my letters anyway!" she said. "Davey's had all this practice already and I haven't done _any_!" She turned towards her brother and shrieked in delight. "We get to go to school together!"

"Great! Let's go get my practice letters!" he exclaimed. They both scampered out of the room, leaving their parents alone.

"What…?!" Clara snapped, disapproving of the smirk on her husband's face. "What's so funny?"

"You caving," he chuckled. "It's a rare thing—just want to savor it while it lasts." The door slammed in his face and he knew that down the hall, lessons in letters were about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, since it's not exactly very clear within the text (and I need to write this down for my own sake), kids in England start primary school the school year they turn five. This means that thanks to the September 1st (or August 31st) cutoff date, Davey and Wynn belong in the same grade level. He turns five during the first month of the school year, while she turns five the following August, before the cutoff (in this fic, anyhow). I'm sure there are ways to get around it, but none for the Smith kids. (Sorry, UK readers; I know it seems simple, but holy wah can schools be different in starting ages and operations and such.)
> 
> There's also the fact that Luke and Ruby were both probable candidates for high-tech apprenticeships that would have started before they met based on the norms of the time, coupled with lower school-leaving ages than today that would have allowed them to work at a younger age instead, but that's also neither here nor there.


	79. August 1953

Leaning back and cricking his neck, John grinned at the ceiling of his studio in triumph: another book was done and ready for print. It was a tale about a knight who only used eating utensils to fight. Sir Spoon, as he was called, helped save a village from their evil regent, putting the captive good lord back in power. It was a very silly concept, but it was what Mr. Brown had wanted him to write. Now he was done and could take a week off before the kids started school, maybe go to the seaside with the family, or find their way over towards Dave's for a spell. The sky felt like the limit, and it suited him.

With a small skip in his step he stood and walked out of the room, headed down the stairs. He entered the kitchen and found Clara stirring some sort of brown batter while the children watched curiously.

"What's the occasion?" he wondered. "I thought we already used the sugar we saved up for Wynn's cake."

"I heard on the radio earlier that sugar is coming off rations next month, so I decided to use the extra savings for a treat," Clara explained. John bent down to give her a kiss, swiping a finger's worth of chocolate batter in the process before she could smack his hand away. "Behave!"

"I will when you will," he grinned. John went to the stove and began to put the kettle on for tea before rummaging through the cupboards. "Where are the sugar cubes?"

"Not in the biscuit mix," Clara replied. Wynn jumped down off of her chair and went over to one of the low cupboards, reaching far in the back for an unopened box.

"Here, Daddy!" she said, holding them up triumphantly. John took the box and pat his daughter on the head.

"Good girl; now let's get some of Mam's good tea; this is a special occasion."

"I didn't think you would be _that_ excited about being able to buy more sugar," Clara smirked. John put the sugar cubes in the dining room and came back in the kitchen to begin putting together things for tea. He got the tray all ready and then began to pace around impatiently, waiting for the water to boil.

"Daddy, do you have ants in your pants?" Davey wondered.

"No, son. I just am anxious to finally have real tea again," he replied. "I haven't had real tea since before I met your mam."

"But you drink tea all the time!" Wynn noted.

"Both at home and at restaurants," Clara added. She put the batter bowl down and stared at her husband, hands on her hips. "What do you mean you haven't had 'real tea' in over thirteen years?"

"I just _haven't_ , alright Clara?" John defended. "I learned how to take tea strong once, so I did it again for the sake of the nation."

"Oh, don't give me that crock, you big baby," she groaned. "You take _two_ lumps in your tea—don't tell me that it's too bitter for that Scots palate of yours."

"You English are simply so disrespectful and _insensitive_ ," he said, tacking a false layer of insult over his voice. "Why do we even put up with your lot?"

"…because otherwise you'd need a passport to go home and your children would only see you on designated holidays." Clara deadpanned. She watched as her husband scrambled for the tea towel as the kettle boiled and poured hot water into the pot. Once the kettle was replaced on the stove and the cosy put in place, he happily took the tray into the dining room.

"Come on!" Wynn exclaimed. Her and her brother followed their father into the dining room and sat down on the fancy wooden chairs. Their attention remained focused on the teapot, wondering what marvelous thing was going to happen that would turn their mother's favorite tea into "real tea".

Eventually, the tea finished brewing and John carefully poured himself a cup. "Now pay attention, kids: tea is a very particular thing when it comes to different people." He took a few cubes out of the box and began dropping them slowly into his tea.

One, two.

"While there is no single way to make a 'proper cuppa', since worldwide traditions go back many hundreds, even thousands, of years," three, four, "this means that there are many ways someone can take their tea."

Another handful; five, six, seven.

"Many Americans like their tea cold, some Chinese people put theirs in a brick for storage, and there is an Indian tea that many claim to be the best in the world." Eight, nine. "This is how we take our tea in Scotland—nice and hot and just the right amount of sweetness."

"You are insane," Clara scowled from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, watching as John stirred the liquid. "Can you even dissolve all that sugar?"

"Of course I can," he said, nodding resolutely. Once he was finished, he tilted the cup slightly and let the tea spill into the saucer, which he then brought to his lips to sip. "See? _Perfect_. I knew the new queen would begin putting things right again. Never would have happened otherwise."

"You are _awful_ ," she sighed. "Her father just died—don't say rude things like that."

"I'm Scottish; I can be rude if I want. I'm an independent state of rudeness."

"I married an Edwardian man-child that's going to give himself such an awful case of diabetes that his drawing arm's going to _fall off_ and then he'll be nothing but a useless lump of sugared blood and candied organs," Clara groaned. She threw her arms in the air and walked away, returning to her baking.

"At least _this_ is the stereotype that's true!" John called after her. "It could be worse!"

"Yes: I could be _frying everything_ and then my house would _never_ smell like anything other than a greasy canteen ever again!"

"Uh, Daddy? What's ' _diabetes'_?" Davey asked. He took a sugar cube from the box and began to examine it closely.

"It's a condition where people have problems with what sugar does to their bodies," John answered, pouring himself some more tea for the saucer. "Some people are born with it, but some people develop it, and if it's not treated properly, body parts start falling off and you die." The kids both stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified. "Don't worry—your dad watches how much sugar he has. I'm not dying on you yet."

"Good; I don't wanna have to flush you down the toilet like we had to do Mummy's fish. You wouldn't fit," Davey said. John almost choked on his tea in laughter.

"No, I definitely would not fit," he agreed. "Hey, why don't the two of you get your little cups and we can have tea together."

" _Two-lump limit_!" Clara ordered from the kitchen. Davey and Wynn ran out of the room and came back, each brandishing their own mugs and putting them down on the polished tabletop carefully. John poured them tea and offered four sugar cubes each; they took them all, dumping them in their cups.

"Oooh! This is really tasty, Daddy!" Wynn marveled. She wiggled in her seat, holding onto her mug happily. "Maybe when I'm older, I can have _more_ sugar in my tea?"

"As you get bigger, I think so," John mused in approval. "Do you need some milk for yours?"

"Yes, please," Davey said. He pressed his lips together into a straight line, attempting to not make a disgusted face. His father fetched the milk from the refrigerator and poured it in his mug. The boy's taste buds were placated and he was able to finish the rest of his drink.

"Hey Clara?" John said, voiced raised loud enough to carry into the next room. He poured himself and Wynn another cup while allowing Davey to excuse himself.

"Yes?"

"When do you think the kids can try coffee? Not for a while yet, but…"

Clara angrily stormed into the dining room and shoved her husband's face into his tea, making him spill half the cup on the tray, before stomping back out. "Ten years, at _least_! You are so impossible!"

Father and daughter both snickered in reply, clinking their cups together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interesting thing to note is that according to the wikipedia page on tea culture, under the United Kingdom section (but not in the British tea culture mainpage ???), it says "Drinking tea from the saucer (poured from the cup in order to cool it) was not uncommon over fifty years ago but is now almost universally considered a breach of etiquette." This means that when Twelve drank from the saucer in Death in Heaven (which I know made me and a bunch of others sort of laugh at how "idgaf" Twelve was being), he was just using the tea etiquette he learned back when he first landed on Earth… over fifty years ago.


	80. September 1953

"Time for school! Time for school! Time for school!" Wynn shrieked at the top of her lungs as she ran through the house. Her parents were already up, wincing at the shattered silence as they sat over their mugs of tea in the kitchen.

"I give her a week," John muttered.

"A month at the most," Clara groaned. They both ignored their daughter as she rushed through the kitchen, in one door and out the other, bouncing about in glee. "How many years do they legally have to stay in school now? I know they raised it recently."

"More than when I was a lad," her husband replied. It was then that Davey decided to join the family, shuffling in and rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Why is Wynnie so loud?" the boy whined. He sat down at his chair and placed his head on the table. "Do we have to go _today_?"

"Yes, you have to go today," his mother assured. She reached over and rubbed his back supportively. "Just think of all the new people you're going to meet today and all the new things you'll get to do."

"Wynnie can meet people and do things for me," Davey replied.

Clara straightened her son in his seat and placed an apple in his hands. "Now tuck in, as Daddy says, and we'll get you dressed." He made a groaning noise in reply and slumped down in his chair—this was a stellar start to the children's education. Turning her head, she shouted towards the wall, towards the sitting room. "Wynn! Get in here and eat!"

"Coming, Mummy!" the girl sang. She skipped into the kitchen and got herself a bowl of cereal. "Today is going to be so much _fun_!"

"I don't feel well," Davey whimpered.

"How did I raise such a different pair of children?" Clara sighed. "You both are going and that's that, and Wynn, calm down; you're using up all the energy for both you and your brother.

"Oops! Sorry Davey!" she said. Wynn hugged her brother tightly before continuing her breakfast. "There's some energy! Be happy!"

"Okay…" he replied.

It took some additional coaxing from both their parents to get both children into their uniforms and properly prepared for the day. Once they were dressed and ready, John made them pose for a photo in front of the house and both he and Clara went to usher their kids to school.

"Mummy, are you and Daddy going to walk us to school _every day_?" Wynn asked as they went down Grynden Street.

"No; we'll take turns, but I imagine I'll be walking you more often than Daddy," she said. Clara took John's hand in hers and the corner of her mouth twitched up. "Before long, you won't need one of us to get you to and from school and you can go by yourselves."

"Walk around without you?" Davey cringed. "But what if something happens?"

"That's only when you'll be old enough to handle it," John replied. He ruffled his son's hair affectionately. "Don't worry—the walk's not that far. You could even walk with friends you make. Anything could happen."

By the time the Smiths arrived at the schoolyard, the place was jam-packed with children. Davey and Wynn both clung to their parents tight, allowing them to navigate the crowd for them. They made their way over towards the building itself, where there was a concentration of children and parents alike, all of the students appearing either wide or teary-eyed at the prospect of leaving their adults behind.

"Pardon me, but are you the teacher for Year One?" Clara asked a woman about her age with a clipboard. She glanced over at her and put on a cheery face.

"Yes. I'm Miss Waterfield," she said, holding out her hand. Clara shook it, relieved that she didn't have to do some more hunting. "Now who are you dropping off?"

"David and Oswynne Smith." Clara gently put a hand on her children's shoulders and guided them forward. "Kids, this is your teacher: Miss Waterfield."

"Oh, I didn't realize we had twins in the class," Miss Waterfield gasped in delight. "I don't think we have twins in this year otherwise."

"We're not twins," Davey stated. " _I'm_ the older one and _she's_ the younger one."

"Yeah!" Wynn added excitedly. "I turned four _last month_ , but Davey's gonna be five _this_ _month_! I almost had to stay home, but rules are rules, so now I'm here!"

"Oh, I see…" Miss Waterfield replied, realization washing over her like a cold barrel of seawater. She then looked at John and Clara, not sure of what to say.

"Don't be afraid to scold our Wynn if she gets out of hand; she really can be a ball of energy," John chuckled. "Do let us know if either child misbehaves and we'll make sure it gets addressed at home."

"Th-thank you," Miss Waterfield stammered. With a final round of good-bye kisses distributed, John and Clara walked arm-in-arm out of the schoolyard, waving to Davey and Wynn before they disappeared behind the wall.

"We're going to have a lot of that, aren't we?" Clara laughed once the sound of shouting children began to fade.

"A lot of what?"

"Teachers thinking we have twins until they actually meet them."

"Oh… yeah… discovering the Smith Not-Twins is definitely going to be a rite of passage for those poor people," John agreed. They turned back down their street and unconsciously slowed their pace. "It's going to be so odd now. I can leave my door open all the time again and not have to worry about tripping over a toddler on my return."

"…and I can clean the floor without worrying about mud tracks ruining it before it dries."

"…and I can treat you to a nice lunch during the week if I wanted."

"…and we can actually…" Clara cut herself off at the sight of a secondary school student rushing down the pavement in an attempt to not be late. Once he was out of earshot, they were almost in front of their own house. "We can actually not worry about being walked in on if we want a lie-in after lunch."

John's eyebrows shot into his forehead as they passed the gate and walked up the approach. It only took two seconds of the front door being closed behind them before his wife was pulling down his face for a snog and he was urgently grabbing at her blouse. They ran upstairs in a fit of giggles, ready to make perfect use of their newfound solitude.

* * *

"Oh my _gosh_ , Daddy, school is so much _fun_! Wynn cheered as she skipped along the pavement.

"Was it now?" John chuckled. He watched carefully as his daughter pranced about ahead, while his son held his hand tightly during the walk home.

"Yeah! Miss Waterfield is really nice and there's a bunch of kids who I think can be our friends and there's a _library_ that's just for _students_ and a playground and… oh, there's so _much_!" she replied. "I wonder what we're going to do tomorrow!"

"I dunno…" Davey muttered. John looked down at the boy, seeing that he was generally moping along.

"What's the matter, son?"

"Are you sure Mummy can't teach me at home?" he wondered. "I don't think I wanna go back."

"You're just sour because Zoe and Polly kept on staring at you all class," Wynn huffed. "Just tell them to stop."

"I did, but then they did it more," he grumbled. Davey hid behind their father's hand as they walked. "Do you think Miss Waterfield will let me change desks if I ask nicely?"

"How about if I come along tomorrow morning and ask her for you, yeah?" John offered. His son nodded quickly in reply and suddenly let go of his hand, dashing off towards their house that was now in view. Wynn sped off after him. He walked calmly along, however, saying hello to Strax as he mowed the lawn and taking his time walking up to the front door. By the time he was removing his shoes in the foyer, Clara came from the back of the house with a concerned look on her face.

"So, how'd it go?" she asked. "Both the kids ran straight upstairs to change and all I got out of them was that they'll have tea once it's done."

"It sounds like the wee ones fall into puppy love a lot quicker than I recall," he snickered. "Poor Davey—he's got two already. If there was any doubt he was my boy, there's no mistaking it now."

"A Primary Casanova, were you now?" she laughed, bringing him down for a quick kiss.

"Och, aye, the quiet artsy types are the ones you have to watch, 'cause they're the ones that'll steal your girl right from under your nose," John laughed. He tried to bring his wife in closer and nip at her ear. She dodged, giggling at his attempt. "Wynn's doing fine though, so I'm relieved about that. Just have to watch over one child."

"Doing fine or is as oblivious as her father," Clara noted as they went back to the kitchen. "What will you do when it's your _daughter_ coming home half in tears because the boys won't stop staring at her?"

Thinking about it, John silently sat down at the table, his brow not sure whether it wanted to furrow or arch. "Do you think they have boxing lessons for girls?"

"John, _no_ ," Clara teased. She ruffled his hair and began rummaging in the refrigerator for the milk for tea. "By that time I think Davey will step in and do his brotherly duty—before long I'm sure Wynn will do the same for him."

"I hope so, Clara," he frowned, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. "I really do hope so."


	81. October 1953

Clara was in a panic.

She had thought that sending Davey and Wynn to school would have meant she had loads more free time to do what she wanted, to pick up a new hobby or cause and cure the mania that seemed to plague her, when she quickly learned that almost the opposite had become true. Dropping them off and picking them up took time out of her day, as well as making sure they didn't have home projects and whatnot. Attending school had only made them _more_ hyperactive upon their return home, and keeping them corralled so as to let John work in as quiet of a place as possible until dinner was a hassle on its own. Then there was actually putting _together_ dinner, as well as lunch and breakfast, and doing the shopping, and running other errands, and by the end of the day sometimes she did not care what was going on as long as her children were in bed and she was wrapped up in her husband's arms.

So really, Clara had little time to actually pay attention to the face that was looking back at her in the mirror. Normally it did not even matter to her, as long as she appeared to be somewhat functioning and capable of raising a husband and two children, but one Saturday in late October was when she caught sight of it too late.

A grey streak sitting right at the front of her brow where she parted her hair.

It wasn't a very large bit of grey, but it was enough to notice and too big to pluck. Grey hairs were nothing new to Clara—she'd been getting them here and there since her first pregnancy—but to get several all at once and in the same spot was little short of mortifying.

John, having been more grey than brown for nearly ten years, was nothing but confused. He had woken up to see Clara sitting in front of her mirror, trying not to cry as she got ready for the day. To him, the only thing that was wrong was that it was early in the morning and his wife was holding back tears.

"Clara? Are you okay?"

"Huh?" She turned to glance back at him, but did not complete the motion. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine…"

"I said _I'm fine_ ," she snapped. She quickly stood and grabbed her housecoat, jamming it on. "I'm going to get the kids up and make breakfast."

"Okay…" John said warily, certain his reply was not heard as Clara shut the door behind her. He shook his head and got dressed slowly, pondering what could have been bothering her. By the time he made it down to the kitchen Davey and Wynn were kicking their feet and eating their cereal happily while Clara put together some toast and jam for her and John.

"Morning Daddy!" Wynn said. "Are you gonna work today?"

"I don't know, sweetling," John replied, kissing his daughter on the top of her head. He ruffled Davey's hair and sat down, with Clara just finishing up their food as he did. She still looked awful but was composed enough to not let the children realize it as she put the tray with toast and jam and tea on the table between her seat and John's.

"Wynnie and I don't want you to work today," Davey added. "We wanna do something with you."

"What sort of thing?" John asked. He took his food and kept a careful eye on Clara as he met his son's eyes. "Did you want to go out or…?"

"Something here's okay," Davey shrugged. "It just seems like a good day to do something."

"Then figure out what you want to do when you get dressed," Clara said. The children both looked at her curiously, for her voice was hard and stern. "Go on; finish up and get ready. _Now_."

Davey and Wynn both finished drinking the milk from their cereal bowls and ran out the kitchen. Clara sighed heavily, propping her elbow on the table as she cradled her forehead in her hand.

"Clara, what's wrong?" John asked. "You're never that harsh."

"I just… I just need some space today, alright?" Clara snipped. "I don't feel good."

"How don't you feel good?" John asked. He reached across the table to brush aside her hair and feel her forehead, which she jerked back from.

"I just don't." Clara shoved the rest of her toast in her mouth and left, taking her mug of tea with her. That was all the answer John needed. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, silently eating until his kids came back into the kitchen dressed for the day.

"Hey Daddy, what's wrong with Mummy?" Davey asked. "We heard her crying in your room."

"Your mam doesn't feel well, I'm afraid," John explained. "I get the feeling she doesn't think she's pretty anymore." The kids both scrunched up their faces in confusion.

"…but Mummy says you're pretty when you're smart," Wynn thought aloud. "Is she not smart anymore? I didn't think you could get dumb overnight."

"She's still smart, but she's not acting like it. Did you see how her hair's different today?"

"Yeah," Davey nodded. "It's got that bit in it." He tugged at his own hair, where Clara's grey had appeared.

"Well, your mam's afraid now that the bit's gotten in her hair people will treat her different… treat her poorly."

"Oh…" the kids said at once.

"It's just a little grey," John shrugged. "I've got a lot of those and you don't see anyone treating me poorly."

"Then why's Mummy so worried?" Davey asked. John folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them, bringing himself down to eye-level with the children.

"Your mam's always been the young one, and me the old one. She looked the same age for a long time but now she's not and it's scary. I've been seeing it for a while, but I think it just happened all at once for her. That's a very scary thing for anyone."

"I still think she looks pretty," Wynn said.

"Yeah, me too," Davey chimed in.

"Hey… then how about we do something for her?" John asked. "Show me what they're teaching you in arts class."

"Okay!" Davey and Wynn agreed. They waited for their dad to finish up his breakfast and followed him up the stairs to his studio.

Once there, John cleared a large space in the middle of the floor. He found some spare paper and the kids' crayons and set them down in the center of the clear space. He sat down with them on the floor and watched as they drew their own pictures for Clara. Davey drew all four of them at the park, like what he had originally wanted to do that day, while Wynn drew her and Clara reading. It was late morning by the time the drawings were to the children's specifications and they were cleaning up. John was just getting a hand up to his feet when Clara came into the studio, looking rather cross.

"So this is where you've been," she said. "I thought you went out for the day."

"No, we drew these for you, Mummy!" Wynn announced. She and her brother held up their drawings as their mother bent down to look. "See? This is us when we read together!"

"Yeah, and this is all of us at the park!" Davey said. "See? Everything's still the same."

"What do you mean…?" Clara asked. She looked at the drawings and saw that the kids had included her newfound hair colorization. "You…"

"Nothing's changed, Mummy," Davey said. "You don't have to be sad because you look more like Daddy with your bit."

"Is that so?"

"You're still the prettiest, don't worry," Wynn smiled. "At least you're not like Josie's mummy—she's mean and kinda thick."

"Oswynne Elena Smith! That is a very rude thing to say."

"It's true though!"

"That's enough," Clara said. "Now why don't you two put your drawings on the refrigerator and go outside until lunch?"

"Okay…" the kids said. Their mother ushered them out of the room and closed the door, leaving just the adults remaining in the room. John walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He rested his chin atop her head, chuckling at the door only inches from his face.

"You're upset over nothing," he smiled. "The kids don't care, I don't care… you're fine, Clara."

"No, I'm not," she groaned. She turned around and faced her husband, who was wearing a grin she wanted to smack off his face. "I look _awful_."

"You look more your age," John shrugged. "Maybe a little rough for thirty-four, but you did have two kids in a row. It was about time you started to look it."

"John, I look like an old woman."

"No, we're just closer to matching now." He leaned down and held his wife's face in his hands, running his thumbs gently over her cheeks. "Remember what you said when you caught me with the hair dye? ' _Don't even think about hiding yourself, John Smith_ ,' you said. You told me you loved me, greys and all."

"…and I _do_ , but…"

"…I love you more and more each day, and that includes the greys and the lines and the wear and tear." John traced the light wrinkles forming under her eyes and at the corners and smiled. "I can't believe I'm so lucky to have found you."

"Oh John…" Clara sighed. She wanted to be angry, she really did, but instead she brought his face closer and kissed him. "You are an idiot."

"You want to know what else I am?" he asked slyly.

"What?"

"Certain that we've got about half an hour before Davey and Wynn decide they're hungry enough for some lunch."

Clara reached for the doorknob and went out into the hall. She looked out the window, down at their kids as they played football with one another, and back towards John as he stood in the studio doorway.

"More like fifteen minutes; lock the bedroom door and let's make this quick," she replied with a smile. John happily followed her to their room, confident that he made things better.

He wasn't the only one that could be compared to a fine wine in the house, after all.


	82. December 1953

John stretched languidly, popping the vertebrae in his neck. He looked at his watch—it was past the time Clara normally left to pick up the kids from school. She hadn't said anything, but he knew it was to make sure he wasn't aware he was alone in the house. With her gone, he could pop down to the kitchen and swipe a biscuit or three while she was gone without reprimand. An accomplished grin on his face, he stood from his chair and left his studio, making his way downstairs and towards the heavenly smell of baking.

"Clara…? What are you still doing here?" he asked. His wife looked up from the batter she was mixing at the time on the wall clock.

"Shit… I got so involved with this I forgot the kids! Can you go get them for me? The batter will spoil if I let it sit too long."

"My fee is steep," he chuckled. John kissed her on the lips and nabbed a biscuit, shoving the whole thing in his mouth at once. "Alright—you've convinced me."

"Hurry, please, they get out in ten minutes," Clara insisted. She popped another biscuit in her husband's mouth and smacked him solidly on the rear. "Go, go!" He smirked and complied, slipping on his shoes and coat as he went out the door.

The walk over to the school was relatively peaceful, occasionally interrupted by roving packs of children old enough to go home by themselves. John thought of his children, and how old they would have to be before he'd allow them to do that, and tried not to be saddened by the prospect of his kids needing him less and less. By the time he reached the school, the yard was empty, so he directly entered the building and found the Year One classroom.

"Daddy!" Davey and Wynn gasped once they saw him. He bent down on a knee as his children ran up to hug him.

"Ah, there you are," he laughed. "Sorry I'm late. Your mam had to send me out when she realized the time."

"That's okay, Daddy," Wynn said. "We were just talking with Miss Waterfield while we were waiting, so we were okay."

"…and where is Miss Waterfield?" John asked. He glanced around the room quickly to see that they were the only ones there.

"She had to use the loo," Davey explained, his face one of dead seriousness. His father chuckled and shook his head.

"Alright now, m' wee rascals—let's get you ready to go." He helped his kids put on their coats and galoshes and once he was able to let the teacher know he had them, they began the walk back home. The walk was not a long one, but the drizzle and wind was making it so that the bounce in the children's step seem refreshing as well as out of place.

"Hey Daddy, when did you meet Gwen and Ruby's mummy?" Wynn asked. John quirked an eyebrow and glanced down at his daughter.

"It wasn't until I got to invite them over to the house on Grynden for Davey's first birthday. Why do you ask?" He waited patiently for the answer, wondering what possibly could have caused such a question.

"Miss Waterfield was going over families today in class," Davey elaborated. "She said some are large and some are small and some are close together while others are far apart."

"That is true," John agreed with a nod. "The war separated a lot of people. Your Auntie Sarah Jane and I were lucky to find one another again after so long, and she was lucky to find Luke to make the family bigger, but what does this have to do with Miss Lucie?"

"Just curious, since Gwen and Ruby are like our family," Wynn replied. "We couldn't remember in class, but you met _them_ before Miss Lucie, yeah?"

"That we did; you know, for some people, their friends _are_ their family, or having their friends around makes things easier to handle being far away from their family due to work and whatever else may influence where they live," John said. "Visits are one of the ways people try to stay close. It's why your Granddad comes over from Blackpool, and why we visit your auntie and cousin."

"That makes sense," Wynn supposed. By then the house was in view and she wrenched her hand from her father's, running at full speed towards the front door. Davey followed suit and John found himself walking half the length of their street alone. When he made it inside, coats and shoes and knapsacks were littered in the foyer, hastily stripped off in the rush to attack the source of the smell of freshly-baked goods. He straightened them up and walked back to the kitchen, where he found the kids enjoying the biscuits of his wife's labor alongside a glass of milk.

"What did you two get to do in school today?" Clara asked as she stirred some more batter. She let John peck her lips before he sat down with his own glass of water, swiping a couple of the baked treats for himself. The children bounced in their seats as they munched happily on their snack.

"We talked about different kinds of families because we were talking about Christmas traditions," Davey repeated. "Miss Waterfield said some kids have just a mum, and some have just a dad, and some kids don't even live with their parents, and that affects what they do."

"That's right," John agreed. "That's why Orson and his dad live with his granny and aunties; his mam doesn't stay with them, so Miss Lucie, Gwen, and Ruby do a lot for him, and Danny has been doing dad stuff for his sisters since before we met them because both Mr. Pink and Mr. Miller have been dead for a long time." He took a sip of his water and leaned up against the counter. "That's why your Auntie Sarah Jane has your cousin Luke, because his first parents died and she knew he needed someone to look after him."

"Yeah, we knew that," Wynn nodded. "We also talked about how sometimes kids like us have adult brothers and sisters."

"Does anyone in your class have adult brothers and sisters?"

"No, but we talked about it after mentioning Gwen and Ruby, and how they're not really our sisters but that they call you 'Dad' anyway," Wynn added. She nibbled on the end of her biscuit thoughtfully, trying to recall the conversation earlier in the day. "Davey and I wanted to tell about friends that are like family, but Miss Waterfield kept changing the subject."

John and Clara looked at one another, their eyes wide in concern. They turned their attention back towards their children warily.

"What did Miss Waterfield say when you mentioned Gwen and Ruby?" Clara asked.

"She asked if we were related through you or Daddy, and we said we couldn't remember, but we _could_ remember that Miss Lucie is Daddy's age, so that made sense. We thought maybe you were old friends, but now we know better," Wynn said. "Can I please be excused, Mummy? I want to go change out of my uniform."

"Go ahead; Davey, you can go too," Clara said. She waited until the kids were all the way up the stairs before she stared at John in horror. "It's not even _Christmas holiday_ and they're already assumed to be your second set of children. I didn't even think you and Lucie got on that well—she calls you a ponce just about every time she sees you."

"It's her way of showing affection, and I'm surprised it took this long, in all honestly," John glowered. He took a final biscuit and snapped it in half with his teeth. "I think it's my turn to take the kids to school tomorrow."

"If you make things worse then it's going to be your turn to get them for the rest of the school year," she replied, pointing the wooden mixing spoon at him. "No bullying, you hear? That teacher is _any_ form of skittish because your habit of informally adopting children at-will catching up to us and _you're_ the one to go and give a full apology."

"Yes, boss," he agreed. John went and gave his wife one more kiss—slow and lingering across her lips—before heading back up the stairs to return to his studio. His kids passed him on the steps, both changed and ready to help their mother with her baking. He watched them rush around the bannister and over towards the kitchen, exhaling happily that they were even there.

* * *

The following morning, John took great pleasure in rattling his children awake as they tried their best to sleep in as long as they could before getting up for school. He acted as though everything was perfectly normal as he and Clara bundled the kids up and shoved them out the door, with him being the umbrella-bearer that morning.

"Daddy, I thought you have to go get started on work," Wynn said, taking her father's hand as they walked along.

"Yeah, that's why you don't take us in the mornings normally," Davey added. He grabbed onto his sister and the two children moved in a bunched-up mess, trying to avoid the light rain that was falling.

"Picking you up yesterday made me realize I feel a bit sluggish, so I think I'm going to try taking you in the mornings more often," John lied. The walked with them all the way to the door of the school building, causing the kids to raise their eyebrows curiously when he closed the umbrella to follow them in.

"You don't want goodbye kisses here, Daddy?" Wynn wondered.

"You can still give them to me here, but I just wanted to ask Miss Waterfield something while I'm around, out of curiosity," he said.

"Oh, okay," the children said. They waited for him to bend down so they could give him hugs and kisses goodbye and rushed in the door as soon as their father opened it. Chuckling to himself, John followed their path towards the Year One room, where there were already a few other students bustling about, talking to their teacher and greeting their peers.

"Ahem; pardon me, Miss Waterfield? Can I have a moment?" John asked politely from just inside the door. The teacher looked over at him and put on her cheeriest smile.

"Of course, Mr. Smith!" she replied. "What's troubling you?"

"I can't be too cross, because it's a very easy mistake to make, but…" John began shuffling over to the corner, with the teacher following. Once he was the one with his back to the walls, he leaned down so as to keep the children from hearing. "I heard you were talking about families yesterday in class."

"Yes; I'm glad your kids said something about their older sisters," she said. "It's so good of you to make sure Davey and Wynnie don't see them or their mum negatively; a lot of people would."

"That's the thing—I'm not on my second set of children, nor my second wife, and as far as bairns to raise Davey and Wynn are all I have," he said, applying a layer of gruffness to his voice. "Mrs. Smith and I hosted a pair of young girls evacuating the Blitz. They call me Dad because they don't have theirs anymore. If you talk more about families and traditions, don't try to include them in the conversation, because it will only confuse the kids."

"Oh, I am so sorry," Miss Waterfield gasped. "I didn't think anything of it! One of my best friends as a kid was part of her father's second set and…!"

"I'm not saying you meant to make fun of them, but the eldest of those girls is currently dating my nephew, and it would be an awful lot of trouble backtracking and trying to explain how they're _not_ cousins later on down the line if this is a thing. We have a bad enough time with my nephew and the younger sister being best friends."

" _Oh_ … that _would_ be trouble," she winced. "Please, forget it ever happened, Mr. Smith. If any of the other students bring it up, I'll make mention it was my mistake—otherwise, it is a dead topic."

"Thank you for understanding," he said, nodding his head slightly. "See you after school."

"S-see you then, Mr. Smith," the teacher replied. She went to go tend to one of the students that had just walked in, who looked like she had scraped her knee on the way up the pavement. John took the opportunity to give his own kids one last quick wave before disappearing out into the corridor. He was so satisfied that when he went back outside, he didn't even bother with the umbrella in the cold winter drizzle.

Walking up to his house, John hummed to himself as he entered the front door. He was soaked through his coat and shoes, but none of that mattered as he shed his outer layers.

"Oh my God; did a car splash you with a puddle?" Clara gasped as she walked into the hall and saw her husband. "You're going to get sick if you don't dry off!"

"No car, no puddle," he replied, bending down to peck her on the lips. "It's just that the mission objective was accomplished and no more assumptions out of Miss Waterfield for a while."

"…and did you scare her?" she asked dully, hands on her hips.

"Only a wee bit," he admitted. "Enough to get the message through; nothing to traumatize the poor thing… I mean, she _does_ deal with our children for an incredible amount of time. Can't give her any reason to hate them now."

"Alright, but I'm watching you," Clara said. She pointed at her eyes, then at John, and back towards her before disappearing into the sitting room. He chuckled to himself and went back up the stairs to get started on the day's work


	83. May 1954

Clara climbed the stairs to John's studio and poked her head in the room. Her husband was packing his portfolio bag, trying to mentally check off the things he wanted to bring along with him.

"How's it going? Nearly done?" she asked.

"Just about," he muttered. "Do you think I should bring any of my books?"

"No; I'm pretty sure they have a copy there of whatever you'd want to read," she replied. Clara went inside the studio and wrapped her arms around John from behind, resting the side of her face against his back. "You're going to make their day, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know," he said. "How many kids get to grow up with an art studio down the hall from their bedroom? If their friends didn't believe them before, then they certainly will believe them after today." Turning around, he hunched over and pecked Clara on the lips, giving her a strained look. "I feel like I'm about to go and talk to a bunch of morons."

"That's not fair—they're four and five."

"I know… but I can _feel_ it. How often do the kids come home and tell us of the monstrously stupid things their classmates say and do?"

"…because our children are four and five and so are their classmates," she reminded him. "Not everyone grows up sharing a wall with an art studio and not everyone grows up with parents that make sure they read two levels beyond their years and talk to them frankly about things. Go easy on them."

"…but _Cla_ _ **ra**_ …"

" _Easy, John_ ," she warned. "If Davey and Wynn tell me _anything_ about you misbehaving, you're on the couch for a week."

"Oh, that's cruel," he pouted. With that, he finished packing up his portfolio bag and, after one more kiss at the front door, he left the house and began to walk down the street, headed straight to the primary school. Children ran around the yard in play, and when he couldn't find his own bairns, he went straight inside. After checking in with the main office, he went to the Year One room and was ushered by Miss Waterfield into the back where a couple other fathers and a mother already stood in wait. A few minutes passed and right before the children all came rushing into the classroom, one of the editors from Kensington, Gordon, and Brown came in.

"Benjamin," John nodded as the newcomer joined the group. He grinned sarcastically, knowing it would make the man uncomfortable. "I didn't know you had children this young."

"I'm, uh, here for my nephew," Mr. Benjamin replied awkwardly. It was then that the students all came in from playtime. Those that had adults waiting in the back ran over and hugged them, with John's nearly barreling him over into the nearby counter.

"Daddy! You came!" Wynn squealed. He picked her up and kissed the tip of her nose.

"Of course; I wouldn't miss my two favorite Year Ones' first Career Day," John replied. He put his daughter down and bent down to hug Davey. "Have you both been behaving today?"

"Kinda; Wynnie punched a boy for pulling on her braid during playtime, but I don't blame her because I did warn him she'd do that but he didn't listen," the boy mentioned. "She's not in trouble because he didn't want anyone to know a girl hit him so he said he fell."

"That's my wee lass," John chuckled, patting his daughter on the shoulder. "And Davey? Good job on letting your sister handle it on her own and not trying to get her in trouble anyway."

"Nuh-uh; she knows where I sleep, Dad," Davey said, shaking his head as his eyes inflated in cautionary fear. He then took Wynn's hand and gently tugged her. "Let's go sit down so class can start."

"Okay! Be great, Daddy!" With one more kiss to John's cheek, Wynn went to her seat and a few minutes later class begun.

Mr. Benjamin went first, talking all about editing and keeping appointments and of the few years he worked in sales soliciting stores to carry copies of books. Then one of the fathers went up in front of the class to explain the exciting and wonderful world of television and radio repair. Finally, it was John's turn. He went up to the small chair set in front of the students and squeezed into it—the seat was more suited to the tremendously-bored children he was about to speak to than it was a fully-grown man.

"Alright you tiny-wee pudding brains, listen up," he said. "I'm Davey and Wynnie's dad and I illustrate books. It's more difficult than it looks because art is hard and writing is just as big of a pain in the rear. Any questions?"

The class sat silently, staring at him in confusion. A girl in the back sheepishly raised her hand and John pointed at her. "Yes?"

"What's ' _illustrate'_ mean?" she asked.

"It means I _draw_ the books, but in my case, I _wrote_ them as well," he groaned. "Some writers don't illustrate, which means they don't draw, and sometimes whoever draws can't write a story so they need someone to write for them. I'm the entire process from conception and brainstorming to editing and the final product that gets turned in." John was met with dumbfound faces once again. "What? Haven't your parents taught you anything?"

"I think it might be helpful to start by explaining where you're from and where you went to school," Miss Waterfield offered. John drew his hands over his face and grumbled, slumping slightly in the comically-tiny chair.

"Okay," he sighed, letting his arms fall to his side. "I come from Clydebank, a little town next to Glasgow. Lots of my school mates ended up in factories or building ships for a living, but I went to University of Glasgow where I studied art and portraiture. I worked drawing the designs on packaging _for_ the stuff my school mates made in their factories until the war. Fought the Kaiser in France, came back, my old job wasn't there, and I scrapped about doing handyman jobs and freelance commission work until I could convince a publisher in town to take me on. Few more years, war _again_ , so I worked building ships because of the paper and ink shortage shutting down the nonessential publisher. After the war I _quit_ making ships and my wife supported me while I made the book that landed me a job here in London." He paused, letting that all sink in. " _Now_ are there any questions?"

"That doesn't make any sense," a boy sitting near Davey frowned.

"What doesn't make sense? I thought that was simple enough to understand."

"You're a dad, but my _granddad_ fought the Kaiser and _dad_ fought the Nazis. Doesn't that make you Davey and Wynnie's granddad?"

"No, it just makes me an _old dad_ , which is perfectly acceptable," John replied sourly.

"How old are you then?"

"Two-thousand-sixty-two, give or take a few millennia; any questions about my _job_ and not my _age_?"

"What kind of books do you illmustrate?" a student asked.

"The Timmy and Donny stories, mainly. Also _Kittens Come Home_ , _Terry and Harry and Barry_ , _Sir Spoon and_ —"

"You're ' _The Doctor'_?!" one of the children gasped.

"Took you a while to catch up," John snarked. "Now, does _that_ spark your imaginations or do I have to run through my entire life to this point again?"

The students' tone changed from boredom to excitement, with the intensity staying exactly the same and half the class seemingly asking questions at once.

"Why do you write books?"

"How many books do you illumstrate?"

"What is Timmy's favorite kind of tea?"

"Daddy, can I go to the bathroom?"

"Are you going to write another book about Sir Spoon and his magic travel box?"

"I write books so parents that don't have enough time to make up stories can still share them with their kids; how many books I illustrate a year depends on what passes the editor I'm assigned; Timmy's favorite tea is a tie between chai with milk and honeyed Darjeeling; Wynn, sweetling, you have to ask your teacher that; and I don't know if there's going to be another Sir Spoon story, but that doesn't mean there never will be another," John answered in quick succession. "Now, who wants to see some storyboards?"

* * *

Glancing over the pages of her book, Clara peered at the clock on the sitting room wall. It was already half an hour since John and the kids were supposed to be home and she was beginning to wonder where they were.

A chapter later and the front door burst open. Clara allowed herself a private smile as her son and daughter plowed through the house, loudly stomping up the steps as they went to their room to shed their uniforms for something much more comfortable.

"Kids! Pick up your things when you get back down here!" John called after them. He sighed heavily and wandered into the sitting room, dropping his portfolio on the ground as he caught the smirk on his wife's face. "What…?"

"How was Career Day?" she asked.

"A rager of a success," he replied sarcastically. John laid down on the couch, putting his head in Clara's lap so she could hold her book with one hand and play with his hair with the other. "The kids have to write about who the most interesting person was they saw today and I get the feeling Miss Waterfield is going to get a lot of scribbles about me."

"That's good—wasn't that the point?"

"You'd think, but the poor people that went after me had a really big act to follow and I don't know if they'll survive." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Clara's nails against his scalp until, very much without warning, two child-sized weights catapulted onto his stomach and made him groan as he curled up and rolled off the couch.

"Dad! Come _on_! You promised you would play football with us when we got home!" Davey said, sitting on his father's hip.

"Yeah! Stop bugging Mummy and let's go play!" Wynn insisted. John gave Clara a pleading look as he stood up and started to be pulled towards the back of the house by their children.

"Have fun," she half-sang. "Oh, and go easy on your father, kids. He's not as durable as he used to be."

"We'll be careful! He's over two thousand years old, so we'll just aim for his legs!" Davey shouted back. Clara snorted in laughter and continued on with her book, glad things went as well as they did.


	84. August 1954

"Kids! This is the _last time_ I'm going to tell you! Clean up your mess in the sitting room!" Clara shouted up the stairs. She crinkled her nose as she heard her children snicker in defiance. Since they began summer break they had been increasingly giggly and at some points refused to cooperate with doing their chores. She was about to head up the stairs for a good scolding when the tell-tale wheeze of John's car pulled into the drive and a distinct thud told her it was switched off.

Going to the door, Clara opened it to see that her husband was attempting not to die as he lifted the bonnet to release a cloud of suspicious fumes while Collette and Donny took their things from the boot. She met them halfway up the walk and took Donny's bag from him, giving the ten-year-old a hug.

"Oh, wow, look at you," she cooed, holding on tighter as he tried to wriggle out of her grasp. "You're so big now! A year or two and you'll be taller than me!"

"Aunt Clara, stop it…" Donny whined. Clara planted a kiss on his forehead and let go, allowing him to stumble off and dash into the open house before anyone else saw him. Laughing, the two women gave one another a hug and ignored the sweary Scotsman attempting to repair his beloved vehicle.

"It's so good to see you," Collette said as they began to walk back to the house. "Thanks again for letting Donny stay the week."

"It's not a problem—you and Duncan need time for yourselves too," Clara said. They went in the house and abandoned the bags in the foyer in order to enter the formal sitting room unhindered. "Donny's got to be a handful right now anyway since he's changing schools in September."

Collette shook her head as they both sat down on the couch. "It would be better if he was just going to the high school where his friends are headed, but with Duncan's new job and the move I don't know how Donny's going to take it."

"He'll get over it soon enough; they all do," Clara said. She paused as she heard John stomp into the house and kick the door shut behind him.

"Tea?" he grunted.

"Kettle's boiled, but you have to make it," she replied. He made an irritated, unintelligible noise and started towards the back of the house and the kitchen. Clara winced unenthusiastically. "Oh, the car must _really_ be giving him problems this time."

"Possibly; he was in a bad mood already when we were leaving the station," Collette said. "Someone made the mistake of asking him how old his 'grandson' is while I was calling Duncan to tell him we've arrived."

"Yeah, that would do it," Clara nodded. "He took the kids out for Father's Day and came home _livid_ because people kept mistaking him for their granddad." She ran her hands over her face and groaned. "I don't know why he's letting this get to him—it's not like neither of us never saw it coming."

"I think it's a matter of thinking it would be alright before the kids happened and once you actually _had_ Davey and Wynn… well… you know."

"Well, with any luck, the trip will be worth it, because usually when your kid is around my kids, he turns into their big brother and suddenly everything suddenly falls back into place." She settled into the couch as her husband brought the tea tray in, placing it carefully on the table and sinking into an armchair. "When's your train back?"

"Not until six, so I have some time to visit before I go back to the station," Collette replied. She glanced over at John, who seemed a bit less tense than he was when they first arrived. "Figure out what the car did?"

"I need a rotator belt," he shrugged while pouring tea. "Well, I need a lot more than a rotator belt, but that's the start."

"Want me to look at it? You know my granddad was a mechanic…"

"No, just sit and have a nice visit; it'll be up and running again in no time at all," John insisted. He then began to drop sugar cubes into his tea, one-by-one in an attempt to keep them from splashing. "You don't need to worry about a thing." A loud _thunk_ was heard upstairs and he rolled his eyes. "Be right back." He then stood and left the sitting room, ascending the stairs quickly.

"…okay, are you _sure_ you two are going to be fine with this?" Collette whispered. "I've been sort of hesitant of the idea of having Donny stay here since your letter about _her_ , and I can still drop him off at my best friend's on the other side of town…"

"It's fine, it's fine," Clara assured. "You didn't _tell_ Donny about her, did you?"

"No…"

"Then there's nothing to worry about. Davey and Wynn need an elder sibling, one that's closer to their age than Gwen, Luke, and Ruby, and giving Donny some responsibility will do him good." She took a sip of her tea and reached for the plate of biscuits. "We already have Luke scheduled to come over with Orson in a couple days and he's taking the lot of them to the zoo. What happened is in the past—I only sent you that letter because I felt I had to come clean about it all. Ten years is a long time to keep a secret like that from a close friend who could have known from the get-go."

"Alright, but if it's _ever_ too much, just let me know, you got that?"

"Loud and clear."

"Five minutes and they're already tussling like Donny's their brother," John groaned loudly from the bottom of the stairs. He returned to the formal sitting room and plopped back down on his chair. "You know, if Duncan ever gets a position here he has to travel elsewhere for work and it's easier to leave Donny behind so he has a stable routine…"

"There are his _grandparents_ , both sets," Clara interrupted. "Stop trying to collect children or you're going to get into _serious_ trouble one day; remember needing to explain old dads and jokes involving _calling_ someone their dad when they're really not? I remember."

"Yeah, well, Collette's dad isn't exactly as spry as he used to be…"

"He's a year older than you and my mam's a year younger than you—I don't think you're getting anywhere with that logic," Collette snickered. The tips of John's ears went red and he sunk further into the chair, sipping his tea grouchily.

* * *

The afternoon sun was warm as it filtered in through the window and splashed over the bedspread in the master bedroom. Underneath it, John and Clara laid cuddled up against one another, with her curled atop his chest and his arms wrapped around her shoulders and waist protectively.

"We should get Luke to take the kids out to the zoo more often," Clara murmured. She pressed her cheek to her husband's chest and hummed contently. "It's good practice for when he has a family, and the children should really be outdoors more in the summer, don't you think?"

"I think waiting between school terms was more difficult than we first imagined," he chuckled lowly. Rolling over so that Clara was on her back, he began to leave lazy kisses across her chest. "The thrill of potentially getting caught is worth it though."

"That's the same excuse you gave when it came to the cupboard in the department store that landed us with Wynn."

"Och, now here I was thinking it was our poor, long-suffering kitchen table that made sure Davey has a wee sister." Kissing the top of a breast, he dragged his fingers along her outer thigh, going up and back. "Ready for one more go?"

"Always," Clara replied. Tugging on John's hair, she pulled his face until it was level with hers and kissed his lips. They laid there, kissing and working one another up, until the telltale sound of the front door being slammed open made them push away in a panic.

"Mum! Dad! We're home!" Davey shouted. The adults had only just finished putting their clothes back on when their son burst into their room, Wynn and Orson not far behind. "Did you take a nap?"

"Yes, we did, now didn't I teach you it's rude to not knock before entering a room?" Clara scolded. She ushered the kids back down the stairs, John close behind, and met with Luke in the foyer. One look at his aunt and uncle and he instantly knew what sort of timing they'd had in coming back home.

"D-did you enjoy the d-day off?" he asked.

"We did, _thank you_ ," Clara replied sincerely. She pulled Luke down and kissed his forehead. "How about you? The kids behave?"

"Th-they d-did, but D-Donny wasn't very interested," Luke explained. "He had his nose in a book all d-day."

"I was like that when I was his age, so don't feel bad about it," John explained. "Hey, any news on that flat you and the girls were thinking about renting?"

"N-nothing yet, but you know how people are," the younger man shrugged. "A st… a stut…. me and two m-mixed girls aren't exactly what m-most renters are looking for."

"Their loss; now where did Donny run off to?" John poked his head in the main sitting room, and when he only saw the younger three there, he went into the formal sitting room to see the boy in question curled up on the couch. "What are you reading there?"

"A book," Donny replied curtly. John waved Luke off and then leaned on the back of the couch, attempting to catch at least the title on the paperback cover.

" _'The Fellowship of the Ring'_? What sort of book is that?"

"A fantasy book," he said.

"Is it more ' _Alice in Wonderland'_ fantasy or ' _John Carter of Mars'_ fantasy?"

"It's like _'The Hobbit'_." Donny glanced up from the page he was on and gave his temporary guardian a curious look. "Have you heard of it?"

" _Heard of it_? I had a first edition before it got leveled in my granny's house during the war," John said. "I haven't been paying too much attention to the literary world since I've been writing myself, so I'm afraid I don't know anything about this one. Who's it by?"

"Uhh, the same guy who wrote 'The Hobbit'…"

John's eyebrows shot up and his eyes went wide. "Really? Let me see…" Donny moved his fingers and let him see the author's name printed across the bottom of the cover. John then ruffled the boy's hair, thanked him, and walked out of the room. He popped his head into the kitchen, where Clara and Luke were just sitting down for tea. "Headed over to the library for a tic, maybe the bookstore if they don't have it; need me to drop off anything?"

"Dare I ask this time?" Clara deadpanned.

"Because it's not fair to steal Donny's book when I could take ages to finish," he grinned. John then dashed off, leaving his wife and nephew to stare at one another in confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very good news! As of this point, the Smiths no longer have to worry about ration cards or anything of the like for their food again. Although the state of cheese-making remained pitiful for a number of decades afterwards and a couple international events have prompted either the rationing or idea of rationing petrol, nothing as all-encompassing as the system during WWII/postwar austerity has been implemented in the United Kingdom since 4 July 1954. Rationing in other parts of the world during and since, however, is a topic you should run a web search if you're interested.
> 
> Another thing to note is that Donny has had that copy of Fellowship of the Ring for less than a month. How come? It came out at the end of July 1954. I know in the story it is described as a paperback, but there's no way it's anything but a hardcover novel. If you do happen to get a paperback book that has not had an official paperback release, chances are it's a stolen/bootleg copy and therefore do not buy it please because stealing is bad whether it's a printed book copy or a fanart online.


	85. 21 November 1954

Davey and Wynn Smith stood awkwardly in the kitchen, their attention rapt on their mother. On the table was the ingredients to make a soufflé—eggs, cream, sugar, the works—and a look of determination on Clara's face.

"Alright kids, listen up," she said. "When I was your age, I was already helping my mum in the kitchen, so today you're going to help me. We're making Dad's birthday lunch."

"…but, Daddy's birthday is _Tuesday_ ," Wynn mentioned.

"Yes, and you'll be in school Tuesday, so I think it will be a nice surprise if we make it today for him instead. Now kneel up on a chair and we'll get to work." Clara went and found two more aprons, putting them on her children despite the fact they needed to be folded over a couple times so that they would fit properly. She then gently began instructing them on how to crack eggs. It was a simple enough venture when she suddenly heard John's voice from the top of the stairs.

"Clara? Can you come here for a moment when you get the chance? I'd like your opinion on something."

"Coming!" she replied, raising her voice so that he could hear. She left the kids alone, rushing out of the kitchen to prevent her husband from coming down the stairs.

"This is hard," Davey frowned as he gently tapped an egg on the edge of the table. The shell refused to break underneath his soft handling. "Mum's really good at this, so why can't she make it herself?"

"So that we can do it ourselves one day," Wynn replied. "I think it'd be nice to make Daddy his birthday soufflé all by ourselves one year."

"I guess…" He cracked the egg open and carefully tried opening the shell over the bowl. It crushed in his hands and suddenly there was a splattery mess of yolk and shell all over his face and down his front. "Bollocks!"

"Davey!" his sister gasped. "That's a _Daddy Word_! You can't use a Daddy Word! You're not a daddy!"

"Mr. Strax uses it all the time, and there's no way _he'll_ ever be a dad," he frowned. "Miss Ruby too."

"But they're adults!"

" _Bollocks_."

"No, don't!" she cried, clapping her hands over her ears. Davey grinned when he saw her reaction and leaned in closer.

"Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, _bollocks_ …" he repeated. Wynn curled up on the ground while her brother kept on, until Clara came back into the room and heard the commotion.

" _David James Smith_ , what _ever_ possessed you to believe that is appropriate language for this house?" she snapped. Davey froze in place and his eyes inflated in terror as his mother came swooping down and dragged him across the kitchen by the hand. She set him up on the tiled counter and began to dig in the cupboard underneath the sink until she found a fresh bar of soap. "Alright David, open up. Come on." She wrenched his jaw open and set the bar between his teeth. "Now _hold it_ until I say."

Davey nodded, his nose scrunching up as the flavor of the soap hit his tongue. Wynn shrank back as she watched the scene play out and stood up straight as Clara turned around. "I didn't say anything, Mummy!"

"I could tell," she replied. "Now, let's get working on separating those eggs." Clara then showed Wynn how to properly separate an egg using only the shell, shuffling the yolk back and forth between the halves, putting the whites into one bowl and the little yellow globs into another. Wynn tried the maneuver herself, dropping the yolk splat into the bowl of whites. Each time she did so, Clara carefully removed it with a spoon, until she was able to get an egg fully separated.

"Oh my gosh! I did it!" Wynn squealed, holding up the shell half containing the yolk. "Mummy, I did it!"

"Good job!" Clara chuckled. She then turned towards her son, who was looking rather green around the gills. "Now that Wynn has learned something today, how about you Davey?" He nodded very quickly while she crossed the kitchen and was more than happy to have to soap taken out of his mouth so he could spit in the sink.

"Ugh! Gross!" he gagged. He took a glass out of the cupboard next to him and filled it with water so he could begin rinsing out his mouth. "That was _mean_ , Mum!"

"Don't talk like that again and maybe I won't have to be so mean," she frowned. Once Davey was done dramatizing the woe that was ultimately his own doing, the three continued on the soufflé.

Plenty of whisking and beating the batter, licking spoons, and stories about Granma Ellie's legendary baking later, and finally the ramekin was full and popped into the oven. Clara let the kids watch some television while she cleaned up the mess and made their lunch of plain sandwiches. By the time lunch was over, an hour had passed and she was able to pull a perfectly-brown chocolate soufflé out and place it on a mat atop the table.

"Okay kids, now don't touch it—I have to go get your father," Clara said. She left the room and the kids both stared at the treat.

"Maybe if we ask nicely, Daddy will let us try a piece, even though we had so much last year," Wynn wondered aloud. "The inside was nice, but the outside was crunchy."

"Probably—you know Dad. He can't say 'no' very well," Davey shrugged. He stood on a chair to get a better look. "This year is chocolate, last year was treacle-y, the year before was… um… cheese, I think. How many ways did Granma Ellie know how to _make_ these?"

"I bet _millions_ ," she said. She then poked the side of the soufflé gently, jumping back with a gasp as it quickly deflated. "Uh-oh…"

"I thought Mum said it takes twenty minutes for a soufflé to fall!" Davey panicked. He jumped down off the table and began looking around frantically. "What do we do?! I don't want to eat soap again!"

"We fix it!" his sister decided resolutely. She dashed over to a cupboard and began rummaging through it. "Go get Mummy's cake knife, Davey."

"Uhh… okay…" He went to a drawer and found the long, blunt knife he usually only saw on birthdays and Christmas, and brought it back to the table. Wynn soon returned with a couple unopened jars of jam, marmalade, and a tin of treacle. She put them on the table next to the soufflé and climbed up next to it.

"Tin opener, please."

"Right!" He didn't question his sister as he grabbed the church key that was stuck to the refrigerator via a magnet and brought it to her. Davey then watched as Wynn carefully cut a circle in the middle of the soufflé, sticking out her tongue while she did so, and lifted the floppy top off of the dessert and placed it to the side. She then opened the jam and marmalade, pouring them both into the hole. When the jars were empty, the girl peered into the hole, evaluating the situation.

"We need some of the berries Gwen brought over, _now_."

* * *

Clara gently knocked on the door to John's studio, finding that it was open. Her husband was sitting at his desk, arms folded and wearing a cheeky smirk as he waited for her.

"I smell something very familiar in the air," he teased.

"Now I wonder what that could be," she snickered. She slid into his lap and draped her arms around his neck. "Think it has anything to do with what's happening on Tuesday?"

"I thought I was taking you out to lunch Tuesday, since we don't have the kids and when you tried your little tradition last year your efforts vanished without a trace." John chuckled and pecked his wife on the lips—the birthday soufflé he had supposed to have gotten the year before was accidentally eaten by his children, at home for the day due to a downed power line leaving the primary school in the dark. He didn't mind, though, and the Case of the Vanishing Soufflé was technically left as an unsolved Grynden Street Mystery once December rolled around.

"Uh-huh; you can't get out of it that easily," Clara tutted, flicking his nose. She stood and gave him a boost up from his seat, leading him by the hand as she went out the door and towards the stairs. They descended to the main level of the house and walked into the kitchen, only to discover Wynn drizzling a whole tin of treacle over a lopsided soufflé whilst Davey tried to keep the sides from bursting open as jam and marmalade seeped through.

The kitchen was quiet as the children and their parents stared at one another, eyes wide and mouths agape. Wynn began to shake in fear, though her brother noticed and took his hands off the sides of their father's lunch, holding his sticky fingers in the air.

"All I did was poke the side!" Davey claimed. "I poked it and it fell even though you said it _shouldn't_ fall and Wynn was just helping me fix it!" Clara narrowed her glare and opened her mouth to scold him for the second time that day, when John stepped forward and ruffled both the kids' heads.

"Would you look at that: the two of you sure are resourceful," he grinned. He sat down at the table and took a fork out of the cup holding utensils, using the side of the prongs to slice off a piece and pop it in his mouth. It was several different flavors that probably shouldn't have existed all together yet that did not matter. He beamed proudly and took another bite. "This is _excellent_. Did you kids want a try?"

"No thank you," they both replied quietly. Davey and Wynn both dashed from the kitchen and up the stairs, with the door to the bathroom slamming not soon after.

"You don't have to eat that," Clara scowled. "I can just make you some sandwiches if you'd rather…"

"My kids helped make this and I am going to _eat it_ ," John protested, dragging the ramekin away from her reach. He hunched over it and ate the entire soufflé, unplanned berries and treacle and soggy bits be damned. An upset stomach plagued him for the rest of the day, but to him, it was more than worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about any of the rest of you, but I felt Ralphie during the whole Fudge Debacle in A Christmas Story. My brothers and I bit on our fair share of bars until we got it through our heads to verbally behave and I honestly find it pretty genius in retrospect.
> 
> Also, to note: when a soufflé "falls", it does not make the comical air-woosh sound and collapse on itself as soon as it comes out of the oven. When it falls, it's the hot air cooling, as well as leaving the dish itself, causing the air bubbles inside the soufflé to shrink, therefore losing structural integrity. The average time for a soufflé to fall is about twenty or so minutes, depending on the size, and oftentimes these treats are even sliced open by the chef so that they can add fillings.


	86. February 1955

"So, do you think he's broken?" Wynn whispered. She and Davey were peering around the entrance of the sitting room, wondering how it was that their father had barely moved the past two days without moving from his armchair in the main sitting room. He flipped through pages of his book with intense concentration, taking a while to digest every word on the paper.

"I dunno. Maybe? He usually likes to play with us when he's not working on a book, but he's just _reading_ ," Davey observed. "I don't get it. Isn't he sick of books after working on them for so long?"

"You'd think." She scrunched her nose and glanced over at the clock. "Mummy's supposed to be gone for a couple more hours yet. Do you think she knows Dad's broken?"

"If she _did_ , then she'd leave us with Miss Jenny," he mused. The siblings went up the stairs and convened in Davey's room. Wynn draped herself on her brother's bed while he took the seat at the desk he was technically too small for, but their parents said he would "grow into". Both kids thought that was rubbish (since Wynn got a desk as well), but they had them anyway. "I wonder what is wrong with Dad. He doesn't get like this _ever_."

"We should ask Mummy when she gets home," she frowned. "I really wanted to go to the park today."

"Maybe we still can." Davey hopped off his chair and closed the door to his room. There he had taped a map of their neighborhood and the surrounding area. The two of them were allowed to go together down to the grocer if their mother needed something small from the store last-minute, or to get penny candy, but never much further, and certainly not as far as the park, which was a couple blocks further than they had gone by themselves. "If we _ask_ Dad if we can go to the park, he might end up saying yes and then we're not breaking any rules!" He traced their path along the map, a route they had taken dozens of times before with their parents. "It's not _too far_ , and it doesn't have many bends, so we won't get lost."

"Are you sure…?" Wynn asked. She rolled on the bed until she found the pillow, where her brother's stuffed owl toy was resting. Hugging it, she rolled back to the end of the bed and purposely fell off. "What if we get in trouble?"

"For what? Wanting to go to the park? Dad can always come with us and sit on the bench like he usually does with Mum, but this time he has a book. It's not _bad_." He took his owl and brought it back to the bed, trying to hide the fact he gave it a kiss before replacing it on the pillow. "Come on, let's go!"

"Alright…" his sister said. They went downstairs again and dressed themselves in the foyer, after which they went in front of their father with wide grins and bouncy feet.

"Hey, Dad, can we go to the park and play?" Davey asked.

"Hmm?" John muttered. He glanced up and saw the two bundled up to go outside. "Oh, yeah, you can go play. Be home by dark."

"Okay, thanks Daddy! See you later!" Wynn said. Her brother grabbed her hand and almost dragged her out the door. Running happily, the two children dashed down Grynden Street and went over towards the park. The playscape seemed like an open haven and they certainly did their best to enjoy it.

* * *

Clara stared out the window of the bus grumpily as it went along the road. She knew she was going to have to bite the bullet and relearn how to drive so that she didn't have to rely on public transport as heavily as she currently did. It was only a trip into town to poke about some hiring agencies, but it showed her that she needed something slightly quicker that she had slightly more control of—even if it meant getting her own motorbike like she had in university. The whole thing had been thrown in the recycling to melt down for war use, but now with no war—not even ration cards to speak of—she thought it high time to renew her license.

Getting off at her stop, she began the stroll through the neighborhood that would take her down to her street. Clara enjoyed walking through the neighborhood, seeing the people wandering about on the pavement, children at play in the park, businesses that were readily convenient, even if they did not always have everything that she needed…

' _Looks like John finally put down that silly book for two minutes_ ,' she chuckled to herself. Clara carefully crossed the street and entered the park, where she found Davey and Wynn taking turns on a slide.

"Hey kids," she said. Both her children seemed to have a strange emotion flicker across their face—fear, perhaps—before jumping off the slide and running towards her for a hug.

"Did you have fun in town today, Mummy?" Wynn asked. "Daddy didn't say where you were going."

"Just to a couple agencies; I wanted to see if there was anything they had for a mum with a little too much time on her hands," Clara explained.

" _Was_ there something?" Davey wondered.

"Nope; nothing that interested me. It was all a bunch of stuff more suited for grans, not mums." She glanced around the park and wrinkled her nose. "Where's your father? Did he have to pop into the store?"

"No… Daddy said we could come down here," Wynn said, shaking her head. "We asked if we could go to the park and he yes."

"I see," Clara replied. Her stomach dropped and her throat became dry, but she did her best to put on a straight face. "Come on; time to go home. Hands, please." Once she had one hand grasped firmly on either child, she began the brisk walk back to their house. Almost immediately after coming inside, she saw John come out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea, giving her a lopsided smile.

"Ah, you're back," he said. Turning towards the kids, he snickered as he watched them take off their boots and coats. "I was about to start calling around for you two. Where'd you go to play?"

" _The park_ ," Clara hissed. "They said _you_ told them they could go alone."

John's eyes went wide and his lips parted despite the fact his tea was nowhere near his mouth. "I heard 'play'. Kids, did you _really_ go down to the park alone?"

"We weren't alone; we were together, and it wasn't that far past the candy shop," Davey defended quietly. He was beginning to rethink the cleverness of his plan.

"David, you and Oswynne were not with an _adult_ , therefore you were _alone_ ," Clara scolded. "Now both of you go to your rooms until dinner. No telly _or dessert_ for the next week."

"…but…!"

" _Go_ , Oswynne. Now." Clara waited until the kids' doors both slammed shut before she turned on her husband. "John, I swear I am going to throw that infernal book out with the rubbish one of these days!"

"I finished it!" he snapped back. "It's done and up on the shelf in the sitting room!" Gesturing with his mug, he scowled before taking another sip of tea. "The last one won't be until October—I thought you _liked_ that I had books to read for myself for once?"

"I _am_ , but not if it's going to poorly affect our children," she growled before storming into the sitting room. John followed a couple paces back, keeping his distance.

"They got me _once_ , Clara."

"And once is enough! They are five and six! You can't just half-listen to them, no matter how good the book is!" She sank down onto the couch and slammed her purse onto the cushion next to her. "They could have been snatched or run over or seriously hurt and you wouldn't have been around to help! They can't be replaced!" She glared at John, who mulled her words over for a moment before exhaling heavily in realization.

"You're right, they can't," he agreed, voice low and somber. He knocked back the rest of his tea and placed the mug down on a table coaster before sitting down next to his wife, putting his arm around her. "None of them can. Five, six, and eleven."

Clara paused, the numbers leaving a sour and bitter taste in her mouth. "Yeah." She leaned into John and sniffed in an attempt to hold back a sob. "When I realized they were in the park by themselves, I…"

"No, no, it's okay. I'm sorry," he replied, rubbing her upper arm gently. "Now, how was your visit downtown? Did you come up with anything?"

"Just a bunch of seamstress things and being a busybody," she grumbled. "I mend enough things at home and I'm no one's errand girl but my own."

"Nothing in teaching?"

"They only had jobs that would need us to move well outside of London. I don't want to uproot the kids—they need the stability while they can get it. A move just so _I_ can go to work when we can afford otherwise is just selfish."

"It's less selfish than you think," John assured her. "Give it another month and go back again; we'll find you something." He kissed her hair lightly and gave her a quick squeeze. "How about helping out with the primary students? Word around the schoolyard is that they're always looking for a substitute or an assistant with the younger ones."

"Between home and when home was my office, I think I've had enough nose-wiping and dressing students for a while," Clara retorted. "Nothing lower than Year Five or Six, I think."

"Did you look into secondary then?" he asked, somewhat surprised. She nodded in reply.

"Yeah, but those wanted some sort of certificate that I _know_ I don't have…"

"Then what's it take to get the certificate? I think I can take care of dinners and school-pickups while you do that."

Clara raised her eyebrow incredulously, planning how to respond. "You want me to leave you alone with the kids more often? It hasn't even been a day, John. Try asking me again after I've forgotten the shock." He bent down and pecked her on the lips.

"Forget now?" he murmured.

"No, you dolt."

He kissed her again. "How about now?"

"Try again," she laughed. John then tried to dive in and tickle her sides, missing as she rolled off the couch to evade his grasp. " _Again_."

"Oh, you are a slippery lass, aren't you?" he chortled. Clara reached up and cradled his jaw, propping herself on her elbow as she strained to press her lips to his. "And this lass is going to get dinner started while her tame loch monster goes and does his soft-handed lecture to the little creatures upstairs."

"I'm a loch monster now? I wonder what that means for tonight?"

"That you need to explain to the kids why they're grounded or you'll be lucky to get a cuddle in," Clara snarked. She left John alone in the sitting room, headed back towards the kitchen, knowing that someday, somehow, she was not going to be doomed to an eternity of dinner prep.


	87. June 1955

Laying down on the bench, Davey stared up at the vaulted ceiling of the exhibit hall and emitted a loud noise in protest. "I want to go _home_ ," he whined. A few paces away, his father and sister stood examining a portrait with the full intention of stalling.

"Do you see how the lighting seems to come from the one side of the face, but at an angle?" John asked, pointing at the bust. His daughter nodded and he continued. "That's how the artist was able to light the whole face, but you see that there are darker colors on the one side compared to the other."

"So that must mean the window was…" Wynn turned in place and pointed at a bit of air. "There! Am I right Daddy?"

"You _are_ ," he beamed. He looked back at his son and chuckled—not everyone was a museum person. "Do you think you're going to survive there, son?"

"I should've gone with Mum," Davey grumbled.

"To Blackpool? For her friend's wedding?"

"At least Granddad's there, and _he_ wouldn't do boring things like this."

"I thought you liked the museum," Wynn wondered. "You never complained before."

"I don't like _picture_ museums," he replied. Rolling off the bench, he then scooted himself underneath the seat, making his father grateful that the wing of the establishment they were currently visiting was close to empty.

"Alright, none of that now," John chuckled. He went over and pulled Davey out from his hiding place, standing him upright to brush the dust off his nice clothes. "We don't need you making a mess of yourself when we've got so much time left in the day; Mam would never forgive me for parading a filthy child all over London."

"Mum doesn't have to know."

"…but a mam _knows_ —trust me when I say that we're better off just behaving ourselves." He looked at his wristwatch, then both of his children, and nodded. "How about this: we go and find the loo, because my afternoon coffee's done working, find a place to get some tea, and while we eat we can figure out what to do next."

The kids both giggled in agreement and the three went down to the much-busier front lobby, where the bathrooms were located. Wynn let go of John's hand and headed towards the women's restroom, but stopped as her father grabbed onto her shoulder and pulled her back.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "The loo's right there."

"Don't go wandering off when you're done," he warned gently. "If you don't see me when you get out, wait right in front, okay?"

"Yes Daddy," she nodded. She then disappeared behind the door, leaving John and Davey to go into the men's side.

"Dad, why can't Wynnie just come in with us?" Davey asked.

"It just doesn't work like that, son," John shrugged. "It's like how you and your sister have different bedrooms… in a way."

"I guess…" Davey muttered. He and his father both did their business and washed their hands, taking their time as they did so. When they left the bathroom Wynn was not by the women's side, so they leaned on the wall and waited.

They waited and waited and finally John looked at his watch—twenty minutes had passed. He got the attention of a woman leaving the restroom, awkwardly asking if she had seen his daughter.

"She's young—almost six—with a blue dress and brown hair done in a braid."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I was the only one in there," the woman said. "Are you sure your wife doesn't have her?"

"Mum's in Lancashire," Davey said. The little boy furrowed his brow and poked his head into the bathroom. "Wynnie! Are you sure you're in there?!" John yanked him back by the collar, keeping him from going any further.

"David, don't you dare," he scolded. John apologized to the woman for her time and took his son's hand as they wandered the museum lobby. He looked around frantically, trying to locate his daughter amongst the throng of people.

"Daa _aaaad_ , you're hurting me," Davey whined. John looked down and saw that his son was staring at his hand, frowning. He let go and bent down so as to look him in the eyes.

"We need to find your sister, and quickly," he said, fussing over his son's hair in an attempt to calm his own nerves. "The sooner we find her, the better it will be."

"I'm sorry, but you're looking for a little girl?" asked a voice. John looked up and saw another museum patron looming above them.

"Yes!" he gasped, nearly jumping to his feet. "My daughter, she…"

"…is probably the girl I saw alone on the steps outside," the man said, pointing towards the front door. John grabbed hold of Davey's hand again and almost dragged him out the door. There, as the man had said, was Wynn sitting alone on the steps not far away, looking up at the sky above.

"There you are!" John gasped. The little girl turned in time to see her father almost trip over himself as he rushed over to her. He knelt beside her and held her face with both hands as he kissed her brow.

"Daddy, what are you doing?"

"Oh my gosh, don't you _ever_ do that to me again," he breathed, his eyes glassy with tears. John let go of her face to bring her in tight for a hug, stroking her hair protectively.

"I'm sorry Daddy, but you said to wait in front, so I thought to go outside," Wynn apologized. "I didn't know…"

"No, no, it's okay," he murmured. "I'm here and you're safe now."

"I was safe before though…"

"Sweetling, I was just worried I lost you. The very last thing I want to do is lose you, Victoria. Your mam would never forgive me…"

" _Victoria_ …?" Davey questioned. "Dad, that's _Wynnie_. Who's Victoria?"

John inhaled deeply as his eyes went wide and his body became rigid. He let Wynn step back and look at him, confused.

"Daddy…?"

It had been a long time coming, he knew, but John had always hoped Clara would be with him and that they were all sitting down to tea as the kids came home from secondary school. He looked at Wynn, then at Davey, and sighed dejectedly.

"How about some ice cream instead of our tea? Ice cream makes things better."

"Uh… okay…?" the kids said in unison. They each took a hand from their father and walked along with him to a stand where they both were allowed to pick whichever ice cream they wished. He then led them to a park, where the three sat down beneath a tree, on the grass away from the pavement and passers-by that might accidentally overhear.

"First," John started, "I want to apologize to you, Oswynne. I didn't mean to call you by another name but I was barely thinking and it clouded my judgement."

"That's okay, Daddy. You were scared," Wynn nodded. She took another bite of her ice cream and stared at her father. "Just, who is Victoria?"

He paused for a moment before answering. "Your older sister."

"…but we don't _have_ an older sister," Davey insisted as he finished off his ice cream. "It's just me and Wynnie… always has been."

"That's because your mam and I don't necessarily talk about her," John replied. "You know we lived in Scotland during the war, right? Your mam and me?"

"Yeah. Is Victoria still there?" Wynn asked. "Did she wander off?"

"No, she… never wandered anywhere," John said. He looked at his children to make sure they were okay and continued. "One day, during the war, Mam and I found out that she was going to have a baby. This was exciting news because we always wanted kids—that's why we had you—but sometimes babies are born too early on accident. They're too small to survive and die very quickly. Victoria was born very early and she only lived a few hours."

"So… we should have a sister…" Davey said pensively. "Is that why you had Wynnie? So I had a sister?"

"No, no, _never_ think that," John said, adding a layer of sternness to his voice. "We were always going to have children after the war was over, but sometimes babies don't wait around for their mam and dad to be ready. We were _always_ going to have you, _both_ of you, and it didn't matter if you were boys or girls or one of each. The only thing that would be different is that Wynn would be sharing a bedroom with an elder sister who… goodness… would be preparing for her first year of secondary school after this summer."

John's vision began to waver as he felt tears well up in his eyes. "I am lucky to have you both because Mam and I didn't know if we could have babies anymore after Victoria was born so early. Often that can mean babies are impossible, but you're both here, alive and healthy, and right now I can ask for nothing else."

The siblings both looked at their father and then at one another. Their dad seemed very sad and, for the first time to them, very old. He was old and sad and looked like he was hurt on the inside, deep down where Mum said the only sticking plaster that would work was a hug and a good cup of tea. Without any tea in sight, the children tackled their father into a hug, knocking him over into the cool grass.

"Hey, what's this about?" he asked, forcing himself to laugh. "We're all still here, right? Nothing's changed."

"…but you're really sad about Victoria," Wynn sniffled. "Please don't be sad."

"I'm her dad; I can't help but be sad," John explained. He brushed some stray hair out of his daughter's face and gave her a smile. "I'm not always sad about her though, because I have you two. I'm never really sad as long as I know I have her siblings, who I've held and cared for, and that is what's important."

"You never got to hold our sister?" she wondered. He shook his head.

"I was at work, back where your Auntie Collie and I built ships; she was gone before I got to the hospital." John hugged his kids a bit tighter and kissed them both on the cheek. "Now, this seems like enough excitement for one day. How about if we head back home and leave the rest of what we were going to do for tomorrow? I can put together dinner and you two both have to read a book for school if I'm not mistaken."

"We're just reading one of your books, Dad," Davey groaned. "Miss Noble assigned it even though we already read it. No one's gonna read it anyhow; it's almost time to go on holiday."

"Well it's either that or you help me in the kitchen—your choice," he grinned. Davey slumped in his arms and rolled onto the grass in protest, forgetting his promise to keep his clothes clean. Chuckling, John let Wynn stand up and held out a hand. "Come on sweetling, help your old dad up."

"How old _are_ you, Daddy?" Wynn asked. She held John's hand as he rose to his feet, wobbling a little when he shifted some weight onto her.

"Sixty-three," he replied. Once he was upright he stretched his arms and yawned. "I'm actually older than your granddad, if you'll believe it."

"Aren't granddads supposed to be older than dads?" Davey wondered as he scrambled to stand up.

"Most of them are, but sometimes funny things happen and someone old marries someone young." John lifted up Wynn and sat her down on his shoulders before extending his hand for Davey to hold. "Let me tell you: it was a _long_ time before I ran into your mam by chance one day, and once I did I knew she was the one I was meant to marry."

"Was it love at first sight, like in storybooks?" Wynn asked, resting her chin on her father's head. His long, fluffy hair tickled her nose, but she didn't care.

"More like love at third sight, but yeah," John chuckled. "Your mam is a very special lady; always remember that. She puts up with me being a complete arse, not to mention a loony, and was there for me when I was down. Without her, I don't even think I'd be alive."

"That's scary," Davey stated. He squeezed his father's hand and began to walk a bit closer to him. "Even if you're an old dad, I like having you as my dad. It wouldn't be the same with just Mum."

"It'll be just Mam, one day, but with any luck that day won't be for a very long time yet," John assured. "Staying around for as long as I can is why I do things like use the weight set in the basement and play football with you—it keeps me young."

"…and don't forget eating the weeds in Mummy's garden," Wynn mentioned.

"They're _herbs_ , sweetling, and they help me stay fit," he laughed. They would know better, one day, though he was perfectly willing to allow them the time to be kids while they could. There was no use in treating them like they were too stupid to handle life, but breaking it to them slowly was definitely a method he preferred.

* * *

After a car ride of questions about health, babies, and promises to explain more once Clara could help with her teaching skills (in hopes it would be forgotten by her return), John pulled into the driveway on Grynden and things began to shift back towards normal. The kids both went upstairs to their rooms to read while their father headed straight back to the kitchen to start on dinner. He was nearly ready to start broiling the lamb chops when the telephone rang from its nook in the corridor. John quickly popped the meat into the oven and rushed out to grab the call before the operator gave up.

"Smith Residence," he said, trying to pretend he wasn't slightly winded.

" _There is a call from Bispham waiting_ ," the operator said. " _Will you accept the charges?_ "

"I accept." John tapped his foot while he listened to the hard clicking-over of the lines and leaned against the wall when he heard precisely the person he wanted to hear.

" _John?_ "

"Hey Clara—miss you."

" _I've been gone since morning_ ," she laughed. " _How are things doing on the home front? Was your plan to teach the bairns about portraiture a success?_ "

"Wynn took to it, but I think it was more to annoy Davey, who wasn't having any of it," he smirked. He then paused, wondering if he should mention anything. "There was a wee bit of a scare though: couldn't find Wynn after a trip to the loo and turned out she was outside the museum instead of outside the restroom."

" _So if I come home to a grounded daughter I know why?_ "

"No, she learned her lesson. I…" He hesitated, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, before continuing. "I called her Victoria on accident."

"… _oh_." John could hear the muffled sounds of gossipy partygoers in the background as Clara digested the news. " _Does this mean they know?_ "

"They know enough… that they should have a sister, and how old she should be, and that we were very scared because of her. I'm so proud of them for taking it as well as they did." He smiled privately, knowing that it would be good to no longer keep dodging the topic. "They are clever little things—your blood through and through."

" _Thanks, but you had at least a small hand in that, when you aren't being a complete idiot that is_ ," Clara snarked. Her voice wavered slightly, though her husband could tell by the tone of her voice that not only was she keeping it together, but she was glad as well. " _Speaking of, where are the little ones? Tell them that Mummy wants to hear their sweet voices_."

"Let me get them; love you." John took hold of the telephone base and carried it to the bottom of the stairs. Once the receiver was flush against his chest, he raised his voice and called out, "Kids? Can you come downstairs? Your mam's on the phone."

Almost immediately, the sound of feet could be heard from the ceiling and both Davey and Wynn rushed down the stairs. They took both the receiver and base from John and brought it over to the nook where it belonged.

"Hi Mummy!" Wynn said cheerily, happy she was the one who got to the phone first. "Did you make it to Blackpool?"

"Come _on_ , Wynnie! I never get to talk on the phone first!" Davey pouted. He set the base down in its spot, scrunching his nose crossly.

Without a word, John went back to the kitchen to check on the lamb chops and make sure they were cooking as planned. Dinner, he thought, might warrant a conversation about the book the kids' teacher was making them read, and a promise not to give away the secret of who the character of Vicky was in their report. He might as well go over the concept of a trade secret now, while they were young enough to take everything he said seriously, instead of a few years down the line when it was time to begin toeing around the Difficult Phase.


	88. October 1955

The afternoon was crisp and clear as Davey and Wynn played football out in the back garden with their friend Orson. The youngster had come over with his grandmother and father for Sunday dinner and was happily kicking the football around the yard. Clara watched over the three through the kitchen window while she took a break from cooking, her husband off entertaining the rest of their guests. She wrinkled her nose as the children fell over one another in the mud and grass—there was no way they were going to sit down at the table looking like that.

Going back to scrubbing dirt from the potatoes, she heard a gentle knock on the wall. "Do you need any help with dinner?" Danny asked as he poked his head in. Going over to the stove, Clara checked the roast and shook her head.

"Well it looks like the roast is doing alright…" she began, her voice trailing off when she turned and saw Danny's face silently pleading for a release. Raising her voice slightly, she added, "But I think I could use some help with the potatoes."

Silently Danny fully entered the kitchen and made his way to the sink where the clean potatoes were soaking in clear water. "Thanks," he said in a low voice. "Between my mum and your John I don't know who's the crosser, though it seems to have become a competition."

"At least you know he's not normally like that," Clara smirked. She handed Danny a knife and let him begin to peel the clean spuds. "Sure you're fine with being put to work?"

"One of my various jobs in the past was working in a restaurant—I think I can handle it," he replied with a chuckle. They worked in silence, the sounds of debate coming from further into the house and their kids playing from outside. A couple peeled potatoes and Danny frowned. "Hey, Clara?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a weird question?"

She glanced at him through her peripherals, arching an eyebrow curiously. "How weird are we talking about here?"

"I just…" He exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "It's just that I get this odd feeling like I know you from somewhere, from before the war."

"How long have you thought that?"

"Since we first met at the restaurant when I was with my sisters. It's not a _bad_ thing… just an odd thing, because I can't place exactly where."

"I've known there's something about you I've always liked," Clara nodded, working on scrubbing a carrot next. "Maybe that has something to do with it. You don't sound like you're from Blackpool, so it must be from when I was studying at uni right before the war hit."

"That's a start—I delivered veg for a while too, back when I was helping to save up in case war really did hit, and I made rounds at a couple buildings with uni students. Hundreds of people, so I'm bound to run into one of them again eventually."

"No… the man that delivered my veg was older, more Indian, very cordial. I didn't go to many parties though, so that probably rules that out…"

A switch flicked in Danny's head and he inhaled deeply. "Did you ever know an Artie Rhys?"

"Prat sat exams with me, but yeah. Only ever associated with him when it was necessary or I was with reinforcements though. Why?"

"I didn't go to many parties either, because of work and my mum and sisters and school, but I do remember my neighbor's friend Artie Rhys throwing a last hurrah before the war." He looked away, embarrassed. "I also remember meeting a cute girl who was very bored until we got to talking."

Clara's eyes grew wide and she placed the chopping knife down on the wooden board. "You introduced yourself as Bert."

"…and you were Claire."

"…and we…" She gestured awkwardly with her hands, unsure of how to go about saying it.

"…yeah… in the guest room. You were really… _enthusiastic_."

"You had fifty pounds less muscle and didn't look like you could hurt a fly."

"The Army changes you; _war_ changes you…" Danny admitted. He turned back to Clara and forced a smile. "Then again, you know that first-hand."

"Yeah, I do," she agreed. She picked up her knife and resumed chopping, trying to brush it off. After only a couple cuts she put it back down and faced Danny again. "Did you regret it?"

"Did _you_?"

"No, but I wasn't shipped out to trade gunfire across the Continent."

"I've had all of two one-night stands in my life, and I'm glad to say that I regret neither," he explained. "One was throwing caution to the wind—two people steadying themselves for the years ahead with a lot of alcohol and some rough play. The other landed me with my son, who I love dearly and wouldn't give up for anything in the world. His mother didn't want him so she gave him to me. It's not been easy on us, but I don't blame her either."

Clara looked out the window at their three kids playing football and sighed. "I sometimes wondered where you ended up, if you were safe or not. I'm glad you made it back okay."

"I wondered about you too. I always hoped you'd find someone who'd be good to you. You have so in John, and that makes me glad." He then smirked, hunching down to better look Clara in the eyes. "Despite, you know, how he acts towards others—otherwise I'd say you found yourself a cranky old man."

Nudging him with her elbow, Clara groaned in exasperation despite her amusement. "I hoped you'd come back, find yourself a good girl, and settle down. Two out of three's not bad."

"This…" Danny shrugged in general, "doesn't make things awkward, does it?"

"Not at all," Clara laughed suddenly. "If one of John's old flames came to sit down at our table I wouldn't bat an eye. It was one night that got you through a war and me until when I met my husband."

"I… I can live with that," he nodded. He plucked another potato from the sink and furrowed his brow in disturbed thought. "John has old flames?"

"Apparently," she acknowledged as she returned to chopping. "Probably at university, and there was a French woman he met before I was born, and he had his own drunken one-night stand when I was nearly two—you know I still can't drink whisky?"

"Really? Me neither," Danny snorted. "Always associated it with the start of war."

"Same here. Whisky and I were never meant to be, it seems."

"Not after that night, no." He silently raised a hand to shush Clara as their kids came barreling into the kitchen a mess of mud and grass.

"Mum, when's dinner?" Davey asked, breathless.

"Well, Danny's not done peeling the potatoes, so I have to boil those still, and all the carrots, and make the gravy… and you three need to wash up desperately."

"…but, I…"

"No buts, Orson," Clara said. "Wynn, you go and wash in my bathroom while the boys use the other and all three of you bring your clothes down so I can throw them straight in the machine. Davey, you can loan Orson some clothes in the meantime. Now get out of my kitchen before I decide to clean all three of you myself in the sink with the veg."

The children scrambled out of the kitchen, leaving the adults to laugh at themselves.

"You and John have lovely kids," Danny said. Clara continued chopping veg with a small smile.

"You have lovely sisters, who in turn have a charming nephew. Something tells me it runs in the family."

"Thanks."

* * *

Later that night, after the children successfully negotiated a sleepover and a special reading of _Donny and Timmy, and Vicky Too_ by the Doctor himself as their bedtime story, John and Clara were finally getting ready to trudge into bed. The two undressed and got into their night things, sore from wrangling children and all the running around they had done to prepare for their dinner guests. John was already sliding under the blankets as Clara was finishing brushing through her hair for the night. She looked at him nervously via the vanity mirror and sighed decisively as she put down the brush and walked over to the bed.

"So John, I learned something interesting today," she said as she nestled into her husband's embrace for the night. She clenched her teeth in worry, hoping she was doing the right thing.

"Oh really? Now what's that?" he asked, completely oblivious.

"While you and Lucie were arguing about how hot the summer was…"

"…I _still_ say 1911 was hotter…"

"…before my time, so I don't care," Clara frowned. "What I _do_ care about is that Danny and I worked out today that we knew each other back before the war."

"Did you now?" John chuckled. "He's a London boy, so I'm assuming you sat classes together at uni?"

"I wish that were the case…" She tensed slightly as silence filled the room awkwardly while her husband thought.

"He was telling me something about delivering veg… did he ever deliver your veg?"

"No… not unless that's a euphemism." She grimaced towards the room, feeling it was his body's turn tense up.

"Why?" He let go and slid down the mattress so that they were eye-to-eye. Furrowing his brow, he tried to detect what the issue was without her explaining. "Are you alright? This doesn't sound like you."

"I'm fine, it's just…" Groaning at herself, she already regretted mentioning anything. The only reason she knew she was saying something at all was to keep transparency as they had tried to do since their first fight. "I went to a party about a week before the war started. While there I had way too much whisky and slept with a young man who knew he was going to be called for service."

"You told me that before; I haven't thought about that in years." He looked at his wife, eyes wide in realization, and brushed some of her hair aside, away from her face as he brought his own back to normal. "Was that young man Danny?"

"Apparently, yeah," Clara said, trying to sound casual. "Barely looks the same, so I didn't wholly recognize him at first, but it's him. He remembers the false name I gave and everything."

"Wow, and to think we cared for his baby sisters…" John marveled.

"Even in London, it's a small world," she replied tentatively. "You're not… _cross_ … are you?"

"No," he scoffed, moving back to where he was originally. He drew her in close again, holding her snug against his body. "That happened before you met me—if anything I'm cross that you hate whisky because of that party. Rubbish way to go about hating whisky if you ask me."

"Good, because I want you to be aware, but I don't want you to treat him poorly due to one night we shared." Clara shimmied in bed until she could look across the pillows at John. "You're still my husband and I don't want you to have any reason to doubt that whatsoever."

"Just as I don't want you to doubt me, even if a Frenchman Danny's age shows up on our doorstep claiming he's half-Scottish," he murmured. John kissed her lightly and rubbed the tips of their noses together. "I'm yours, Clara Oswald."

"…and I'm yours, John Smith."

"Good. Now let's get some sleep. I'd suggest otherwise, but I don't know if Orson's as heavy a sleeper as Davey and Wynn."

"Oh, _God_ , I hope so," she giggled. "Otherwise _someone's_ nephew is in big trouble." She tapped the edge of his nose with her finger playfully to punctuate the matter.

" _Our_ nephew—don't try to pass this all on me," John muttered as he copped a grab of his wife's rear. "Not a lick of blood shared and somehow he still ends up as romantic as the rest of the men in this branch of the Smith line. Now if only they'll get married…"

"The wee nephew you never realized you had, taking care of one of the ones worth taking care of," Clara said. She hummed happily as she settled back down, rubbing her face in his chest. "Night, John."

"Night, Clara."


	89. March 1956

Clara Smith was officially _done_.

"That's it! I can't take it anymore!" she shouted from the ground floor of the house. John paused his sketching and waited as he heard his wife storm up the stairs and burst into his studio. "I've been a bleeding _housewife_ for almost a whole _decade_ and I don't want to make house as my primary occupation for another ten years!"

"I never said that you couldn't go back to work," he replied cautiously. "Besides, you're the one who keeps on turning down the stuff the agency gives you…"

"…because it's all being someone else's wife! I thought women were given all _sorts_ of opportunities during the war! Where did all of them go?!"

"Back to their husbands and brothers, most likely." He put his pencil down and turned in his chair, fully facing her. "It's not like you do easy things by staying home. Being a wife and a mother is perfectly respectable."

"I _know_ it's respectable, but it's driving me _insane_ ," Clara stated. "All I want to do is go back to teaching, but not teach children who have their own mothers to coddle them. Is that _really_ so difficult?"

"Then get that certificate," John shrugged. "That's what you said that the schools were all asking for."

"That 'certificate' was nothing more than a snipe hunt," she grumbled, her face flushing red. "They think I'm just some busybody who can't keep her nose out of where it doesn't belong." She glanced to the side, seeing that the window needed a wash and made herself sick thinking about it. "I didn't want to tell you because you would have gone off on them."

"…and two Grynden Smiths going off on an educator is more than anyone deserves," he said. He held his arms open and waited for his wife to sit down on his lap so he could wrap his arms around her. She did so, allowing him to cocoon her in comforting limbs. "You know I haven't been prying, so I don't know, but have you thought about looking with another employment agency?"

"Yeah, I have, and it's always the same. Either I get offered rubbish or I go to the school directly and they make up some reason to turn me away. It's just so _frustrating_." Clara frowned as John stroked her back, not seeing when an idea popped into his head and made his eyes grow wide and eyebrows arch.

"I wonder if there's anything over at Coal Hill that might be open," he offered. "That's just the catchment over, and it's where Danny works, yeah?"

"I don't want to ask him a favor like that; wouldn't it be weird?" she pondered.

"Not entirely—he _knows_ you're looking for work, but I don't think he'd offer it unless he knew for a fact you were comfortable with the idea of being coworkers. Phone him up after the kids get home from school, and find out if he's heard anything good's available." John grinned cheekily, leaning in to touch foreheads with Clara. "I bet you could knock any Literature course into perfect shape with how you're always reading."

"…and the analysis part wouldn't be that far of a stretch from Book Club, except the book _has_ to be discussed no matter what the rabbits are doing to the garden beds… so as long as my teaching skills haven't gone rusty I should be up-to-date," she added. She thought on the idea for a moment before exhaling heavily. "I think I will. What if it doesn't go well though?"

"I'm sure if there's nothing at Coal Hill, he'll know whisperings about an opening somewhere else—something tells me that teachers keep an ear open on other job openings in case they ever want a change, just like others do."

"I hope you're right, John," Clara muttered. She rubbed her face against his beard—which she wanted to enjoy as much as possible before it got shaved off for the summer again—and nodded slowly. "How does egg salad sandwiches sound?"

"Perfect."

* * *

Later that day, just as Clara was done making tea, Davey and Wynn ran into the house, through the front door and to the back where the kitchen and their snack sat.

"You two are home in record time," Clara giggled. "Did you have a good day at school?"

"Yup!" Wynn replied. "I think I did really well on the maths exam! Davey doesn't think so, but I'm _sure_ he did good!"

"Wynn!" he snapped. "Stop it!"

"Davey, sweetie, go upstairs and get your father for tea, and then please stay quiet while you have your snack; I'm going to use the telephone," Clara said.

"Okay," her son muttered. He scampered out of the kitchen and hurtled himself up the stairs. Clara went to where the phone was sitting in its hallway nook and began to look through the address book that was kept there. Davey rushed back down the stairs and into the kitchen again, followed by John as he descended the stairs and gave Clara a peck on the cheek before vanishing just out of sight. Dialing the phone number, she waited nervously, fiddling with the cord as the line rung.

" _Miller-Pink Residence_."

"Danny? It's Clara Smith." She grit her teeth and clenched her eyes shut, not entirely sure she was doing this.

" _Hi Clara, what's going on?_ " he replied, an extra layer of friendliness attached to his voice. " _Gwen's home, if you wanted to talk to her…_ "

"No, it was actually you I wanted to talk to," she said. The silence on the other end was all she needed to know about his reaction. "I was wondering if you had heard anything about Coal Hill needing a new Literature instructor, or maybe a librarian?"

" _Given up on the agencies in town?_ " he inquired. She let out an embarrassed noise in affirmation. " _Alright—I know for a fact there's a teacher in the school who won't retire until they've got a replacement for him, so brush up your CV and I'll see what I can do about getting you an interview. Are you sure you're fine with working in the same school as me?_ "

"I don't mind if our classrooms share a wall; I just want to get out of this house for more than just picking up my kids and the shopping," she admitted. Danny chuckled on the other end.

" _Yeah, that sounds like you. John's not forcing you one way or the other, is he?_ "

"No, _never_ ; the only time he forced me to do anything was when he quit his previous job to start working on books again, and I was more than happy to let him." She leaned against the wall, finally beginning to relax. "I'll let you know if anything like that happens, yeah? Promise."

" _It's a deal. Oh, wait, hold on Orson, I'm on the phone with Mrs. Smith_." Clara smirked as she heard the boy protest in the background, saying that something was on the telly that needed watching by the both of them. " _I got to go, Clara. I'll ring you either tomorrow or the day after_."

"Deal. Thanks _so much_!" They said their goodbyes and hung up the phone, after which Clara emitted a high-pitched squeal and bounced happily into the kitchen.

"What's going on, Mum?" Wynn wondered. "Who were you talking to on the phone?"

"That was Mr. Pink, and he's going to see if he can help me get a job at the school he works at," she explained as she sat down in John's lap for her tea. "You two could go to the same secondary school as Orson, if that ends up happening."

"Oh, neat!" she gasped.

"Then you wouldn't be so cross all the time," Davey nodded. He put a couple cubes of sugar and a tiny bit of milk in his tea, stirring it carefully. "You're scary when you're cross."

"I am not cross all the time," she scolded. "If you want cross, I'll show you cross."

"Besides, she'll be even scarier if you flunk out on your coursework," John mentioned. The kids both stared at one another from across the table, not sure if they were being threatened or not. Their parents, however, just smirked at one another as they enjoyed their mid-afternoon snack.

* * *

Sitting in the corridor outside the headmaster's office, Clara glanced about nervously as though she were there to be given detention. She straightened her gloves and fussed with the papers inside the manila folder; Danny had been able to convince the right people that she should be allowed an interview, and she didn't want to botch it and have it reflect poorly on him. Just as the bell rang and students began to filter out of their classrooms, the secretary called her in and led her through to the inner office where three men were waiting.

"Hello there Mrs. Smith," the man behind the desk said cordially, holding out his hand. "I'm Mr. Coburn, the headmaster, and this is Mr. Latimer, our Chairman of the Governors, and Mr. Harris, our Literature teacher. Do please sit." After shaking hands with the other men, they all sat down and began the meeting. "So you have been recommended by Mr. Pink. What is your relationship to him?"

"I cared for his younger sisters during the war, and now his son and my children are friends," she answered. It was the truth, and all the truth anyone outside their families needed.

"…and what did you husband do before he, um, passed?" Mr. Latimer asked. Clara had to double-take, not entirely sure she heard him correctly.

"I'm not a widow, if that's what you're implying," she frowned. "My husband is perfectly alive and capable of supporting the family, and it's what he's been doing for years. I just feel as if my time is better served outside the home."

"My apologies, Mrs. Smith," he replied sourly. "I only assumed you'd be looking for a job because the main breadwinner no longer could do so."

"He works from home, so he's always there for when the kids need something or return from school, and _fully_ supports the idea of me going back to work if that is what I wish to do. We are not in desperate need of money, but I value the independence that I had when I earned my own wage and I'd like that sense of fulfillment again." She narrowed her eyes at Mr. Latimer and pursed her lips into a tight line. "It's not a crime, from what I can tell."

"Well, we _had_ taken a risk on Mr. Pink, and so far it has worked out rather well, so I'm not going to be the one to bar you," Mr. Coburn said. "May I see your CV?"

Keeping her back straight and shoulders squared, Clara handed the folder over to the headmaster. He took it and began to flip through the papers, making noises here and there, before passing it on to Mr. Latimer.

"You haven't worked since moving to London ten years ago?" the headmaster asked.

"Yes, sir," Clara affirmed. "I did not want to go back until _after_ I had my children. I'm done now and they are old enough to head home from primary on their own. Like I said: my husband doesn't mind taking on a few extra duties at the house. We shared chores before the kids and we can share them after."

"It does seem rather selfish of you, taking on a job that you don't need at the expense of your husband and children," Mr. Latimer criticized. "Are you sure you will take this job _seriously_?"

"As serious as you'll allow," she bristled. Clara glanced over at Mr. Harris, who had been suspiciously quiet throughout the meeting thus far, and tilted her head slightly. "What is your opinion of me, if I may ask?"

"You're headstrong and iron-willed, and you don't seem to take 'no' very well," he claimed. Taking the folder with the CV, he flipped through it and nodded to himself. "You taught _primary_ school before this? What made you want to switch?"

"Change of pace—I don't necessarily feel I'm _better_ than primary school, but after being relocated to my school during the Blitz and living with small children of my own for the past eight years, I'm fairly certain I'm ready for a new challenge."

"That is very admirable of you, ma'am," Mr. Harris said. "You read often, correct?"

"I belong to the neighborhood book club, and I read titles outside of club, and I do plenty of encouraging when it comes to my children and reading."

"I think he means classics and modern literature, not _Peter Rabbit_ and _Timmy's Highland Adventure_ ," Mr. Latimer scoffed.

"They're not reading at five levels beyond their age, but we read together and the kids do have their favorites," Clara replied through clenched teeth. She forced her smile, unwilling to let one sour man ruin the interview. "My daughter is fond of Sherlock Holmes and I'm fairly certain my husband and son are going to devolve into an argument one of these days about whether Tolkien or C.S. Lewis is better."

"Now, now, there's no need to get into a tiff," the headmaster sighed. He went into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a packet of paper. "As long as Mr. Harris has no objections, I'm going to give you this."

"I've got none," Mr. Harris offered, putting the CV on the desk. Mr. Coburn handed Clara the packet—an exam—and folded his hands.

"This is what we have our top students sit at the year's end term," he explained. "I require all instructors to be able to complete the highest exam in their field before being able to teach. Since you've been out of the profession for a while, I won't require a perfect score, but as long as you do well enough, then I will make a good case for you if anyone else decides to object."

"That sounds fair," she replied. "Would you rather me complete this at home or do you want me to do so here before I leave?"

"Before you leave," Mr. Latimer said, cutting off Mr. Coburn. "There's an unused classroom two doors down, at the end of the corridor. Take your time."

"Thank you Mr. Latimer, and I'm sure to let my husband know you think so highly of his work as to lump him in with Beatrix Potter," Clara said brusquely. She stood and walked out of the office, finding the empty classroom in question, which was filled with various boxes and miscellaneous bits and bobs that were not currently in-use elsewhere.

After seething for a while and pacing to work off her ire, she sat down in a chair and began writing out the answers to the exam. The questions were difficult, and it required some reaching back into her student days to remember some, if she could remember at all. It took a while, but after thoroughly combing through and answering all the questions, she completed the entire packet, bringing it back to the headmaster's office before the bell rung to end the school day. It was only Mr. Coburn there, as Mr. Latimer had left and Mr. Harris had class to teach.

"I appreciate this, Mrs. Smith," he said as she turned to leave. "Not everyone would cooperate after an interview like that."

"Let's just say I'm eager for my job search to be over with," she replied. "When will I hear back from you?"

"Give it about a week," he said. "Good luck."

Walking out into the corridor, Clara leaned against the wall and let the painted cinderblock support her as she felt the effects of her mental exhaustion begin to affect her physically. The final bell of the day rang and she watched the children spill out of their various classrooms, ready to go home. She was about to pick herself up and walk home when she heard a familiar voice in the crowd.

"Hey Clara!" Danny shouted over the crowd of students. She waited for him to make his way through and gave him a hug. "How was the interview?"

"That was the absolute _worst_ interview I've ever sat through," she groused.

"Mr. Latimer was there, I take it?"

Clara looked at him, her brows furrowing. "How did you…?"

"He was the one who was against hiring me too, so don't worry too much about it. You got along with Coburn and Harris, right?"

"Yeah…?"

"Then relax—I'm sure you'll be fine," he chuckled. "Would you like me to walk with you until we have to split?"

"Oooooh, who are you flirting with, Mr. Pink?" a student teased. Danny closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten, clearly fed up.

"Miss Woods, I swear to God I will come down on you _hard_ if you don't stop trying to set me up with every adult woman I talk to," he growled, attempting to keep it under control. Clara could only hold back a snicker as she watched the student walk away. "You sure you want to work in secondary?"

"I'm _positive_ ," she laughed. "Come on; let's get going or there are going to be a few kids wondering where their parents went."

* * *

Six days passed without so much as a peep, so on the seventh day Clara was doing nothing but pacing and hovering near the phone and _trying_ to not go insane while she waited. It wasn't until John came down the stairs for lunch did she even realize how much of the day had been eaten up.

"Oh, shit," she hissed as soon as she saw him. "I don't have anything ready."

"It's okay, I'll figure out something," he replied. John gave his wife an encouraging smile and kissed her on the forehead. "You just hang tight, alright?" She agreed, only for the phone to ring the moment he stepped into the kitchen.

"Smith Residence, Clara speaking," she nearly shouted into the receiver. "Oh, I'm sorry—I had on some loud music and…"

" _It's alright Mrs. Smith. This is Mr. Coburn, over at Coal Hill_." Her knees almost buckled and she had to use the wall for support. " _Sorry if this is a bad time, but I was just calling to let you know that Mr. Harris has gone over the exam and he has agreed that you're more than qualified for the position. We won't need you to regularly report for classes until September, but how about you come in next week Thursday and we can have you sit in on one of his classes. That way you can get a feel for the work again and we can talk about your terms of employment_."

"Yes! That sounds lovely! Thank you!" Clara gasped. She wrote down the date and time she needed to show up and bid the headmaster good-day. By the time she turned towards the entrance to the kitchen, she saw John standing there, a hopeful look on his face.

"…and…?"

"I got the job!" she exclaimed. She ran up to him, jumping into his arms. "I can't believe it—I got the job!"

"That's _great_!" he replied with a grin. "How about we celebrate? Go out to lunch?"

" _Dinner_ , and take the kids," she insisted. Clara sighed happily as she nearly floated into the kitchen, twirling in happiness. " _September_ , John. I get to go back to work in September!"

"I'm glad, Clara," he replied, following her. "I'm very glad. Now, what _do_ you want for lunch?"

"Oh, I think you know what I'd like," she purred, pressing up close against him. "Your favorite, if memory serves me correctly."

"Och, you sure are thoughtful," he chuckled. "Are you sure it's _my_ favorite and not yours?"

"Shut up if you know what's good for you," she teased.

"Of course."


	90. September 1956

"Alright John, now _remember to eat lunch_ ," Clara warned as she made a quick overview of the dining room. Her things had been spread out over the large table and she wanted to make sure that everything had been packed up in her bag. "I don't need this being a repeat of Clydebank."

"You came out of that with a mighty handsome wife, if I remember correctly," John chuckled from the kitchen. He was frying up the kids' breakfast, making sure that they had a decent amount of sausage, bacon, beans, and eggs to go around. Wynn was sitting at the table already, buttering toast, and Davey had yet to make an appearance. "Sweetling, would you like a tomato with your breakfast?"

"Sure; should I pick one from the garden?"

"Go on ahead," he replied. She hopped down off her chair and went outside, just as her brother shuffled into the kitchen, barely awake and barely put together.

"Food…" he muttered, sitting down in his chair. He sleepily grabbed a piece of toast and began chewing it slowly.

"Oh my gosh, _David_ , that is _not_ how you are going to school on your first day back!" Clara huffed as she walked into the kitchen and caught sight of her son. She turned him in his chair and began straightening him up, tying his tie properly and tucking in his shirt. "Tongue." Davey swallowed the toast and stuck his tongue out, which Clara used to wet her thumb so she could wipe the mystery smudge off his face.

"Here's the tomato, Dad!" Wynn announced as she walked back in from the garden. She rinsed it off in the sink and held it out for him to take. With a swift chop of the knife it was cut and shoved in the pan with the meats.

"I don't want a tomato," Davey whined.

"It's for me and Dad, so stop your bellyaching," Wynn retorted. She sat back down and bounced impatiently as she waited for her food. The moment Clara was done with making sure Davey was fit to be seen outside the house, John was done with the frying and began shoveling food from the pans out onto the kids' plates.

"Are you sure you don't want any of this, Clara?" he wondered. "You need to keep your strength up too."

"I'm fine with toast and jam and fruit, as always; anything too heavy and I might lose it before lunchtime," she replied. She pecked her husband on the cheek and began to put together her own breakfast. "I don't know why I feel so _frantic_ today…"

"You start work again—of course you're frantic," John shrugged. He took his mug of coffee from off the countertop and sipped the contents. Leaning against the tiled surface, he watched his family as they sat around the table. "It's good to see everyone up and about, getting ready for the day together."

"Why can't Mum teach us at home?" Davey grumbled. "She's a teacher, and then we won't have to wear these silly uniforms all the time…"

"…because I don't get a paycheck by teaching you two, but I _do_ get one teaching at a school," Clara replied through her toast. "I like having my own money again."

"…but I thought Dad made money by selling his books," Wynn mentioned. She shoveled some beans in her mouth and thought pensively. "Does he not make enough money anymore?"

"No, that's not the case at all," John assured. He poured himself some more coffee and set it down at his place at the table before heading back to the stovetop to take the remaining breakfast foods from the pans and push them onto the last plate. "Mam used to be a teacher before both while I was working on ships and on books; we didn't need the money to live back then and we don't need it now." He then sat down and began eating.

"Then why do you need to work, Mum?"

"I was very used to working, and then suddenly I wasn't," Clara explained. "It was worth staying home while you and Davey were little, but now that you can almost walk home by yourselves, it's about time I get back to teaching so that when you _are_ in secondary school, I can help you out with homework if you need it."

"Luke can do that, though," Wynn argued. Her voice was not demeaning, so her mother brushed the comment off.

"We don't know where anyone else is going to be in four years, so you shouldn't make plans too far ahead," she said. "Now hurry up or we'll be late." The clock in the formal sitting room chimed and she cursed loudly. "Okay, now we _are_ late! Let's go!" Clara stood and popped into the dining room for long enough to get her bag, returning to the kitchen to clap her hands while walking through to the hallway leading to the foyer. "Move it, kids! We've got class to attend!" Wynn perked up and followed obediently, while Davey slumped down in his chair in an attempt to be as small as possible.

"I don't wanna…" he complained.

"Better get a move on before your mam comes back in here," John smirked. He tore a piece of bacon in half with his teeth and counted down to when Clara came back in and yanked their son from the chair.

"David James Smith, I _swear_ if you are going to be like this every day I'm going to use my salary to send you away to a school where they make boys get up at the crack of dawn," she hissed.

"…but _Mum_ …" Davey protested weakly. He attempted to flail in an effort to flee, but his mother's grip was too strong.

Keeping his comments to himself, John grabbed his camera as he followed his family on their way out the door. After a snapshot for the album, he waved them good-bye and went back inside the house. It was quiet as he walked through the hallway and sat back down in the kitchen. It reminded him of a time long-passed, when he was the only one to ever walk inside his own house. At least, he knew as he resumed eating, that the silence would not last long, and that the end of the day wouldn't have him going to bed in an empty house. His house, his _home_ was a vibrant one, and for that he could definitely trade a few hours of dead silence every day for.

* * *

"That concludes the lesson for today," Clara said as the bell rang to signal the end of the class. She let her students herd themselves out of the room before collapsing in her desk chair and leaning back to stare at the ceiling. Never before had she been so mentally exhausted as she felt right at that moment, and although she loved the feeling—really, truly _loved_ it—she was also more than happy to look forward to the end of the school day.

"Knock-knock," a voice called out. She looked over and saw Danny standing in the doorway with a thermos and sack lunch, looking at her in amusement. "Need a friendly ear?"

"These _hellions_ are going to drive me bananas," Clara growled. Danny took that as his invitation to come in, taking the spare chair and putting it up to the front desk before unpacking his lunch. Clara took her own lunch out and ripped a bite out of her sandwich. "It's a shame I can't smack them with a yardstick—I could smack the kids with a yardstick back in Scotland, so why can't I here?"

"Something about the school governors wanting us to try being gentle over firm, or something like that," he replied. "I don't know; I got on alright after a few nicely-aimed whacks."

"Most of us do," answered another person. Clara glanced towards the door and saw a young woman standing there, also brandishing a lunch. "I'm sorry—I usually eat lunch with Mr. Pink and…"

"No, come on in and sit," Clara said. Danny quickly excused himself to grab a spare chair from the corridor, returning and setting it up so the three of them could sit around the front desk. "I'm Clara Smith and my first day is today."

"I'm Barbara Wright, and this is Year Two for me," the newcomer admitted. "Never thought teaching would be so much of a hassle, huh?"

"I knew it was; I used to teach during the war," Clara explained casually. "I took some time off to have my kids, is all."

"Then it's _Mrs_. Smith," Barbara nodded. She looked at her lunch mates and raised an eyebrow. "Anything I need to know about the two of you?"

"Heh, no," Danny responded. "Clara and I go back further than today—our kids play together and my sisters are too entangled in her nephew's life for anyone's comfort." He then looked at Clara and frowned. "Why are our families one jumbled mess?"

"Fate, I suppose, or maybe a divine intervention of some sort."

"Then should I watch over the two of you?" Barbara giggled. Danny and Clara both blushed, though the latter was the only one who showed it.

"No," Danny said, shaking his head. "She has a loving husband whom she has two kids by—Mrs. Smith is off-limits. I'm here as a friend."

"Friends and _only_ friends—I don't need my husband any grumpier," Clara added. She thought quickly and tried to divert the topic. "I know Danny teaches maths, but what do you teach, Barbara?"

"History," she replied. "I've always been good at it, and I admired a few teachers in the past, so once it was time for me to either go to work or go to university, I chose uni so that I could become a teacher as well."

"I'm sure they'd be chuffed to know," Danny said. "You don't seem like you're the sort to be a teacher's pet."

"Not really, but some of them went through great lengths for me, and I don't want to forget that," Barbara said through her sandwich. "I mean, one even got her manfriend to give our class a private screening of _Snow White_ during the war because we were just a bunch of evacuee kids. Not a lot of people bothered doing things like that, and I admire that sort of dedication."

"Manfriend?" Danny snorted, nearly choking on his tea. "I think you mean 'boyfriend'."

"No, he was old, so he was more a _man_ -friend than a _boy_ -friend," she explained. "I remember they got married, but I was placed not too long afterwards, so I can only remember her as _'Miss Oswald'_."

" _Barbara Wright_ …" Clara gasped, her jaw becoming slack. "You got placed in the Scottish countryside, out of Clydebank."

"How did you…?" Barbara wondered. The two women stared at one another, neither sure they wanted to admit their realization.

"You two know each other already, don't you?" Danny deadpanned.

"It seems that way," Clara said. She exhaled heavily, realizing just then that she had been holding her breath. "Seems like you stayed put and didn't go back to London, did you?"

"Not until the end of the war," Barbara confirmed. "I had thought you had died in the Blitz—didn't it flatten the whole town? That's what it said on the radio reports."

"It did, but lucky me was in a house with a decent cellar. The house didn't survive, but the cellar and all of those that were in it did." Clara took another bite of her sandwich and marveled at the young woman sitting across from her. "I can't believe I'm now _working_ with one of my former students…"

"You had to of been young though, since you're not that old now," Barbara said. "You were young and your husband was old—I remember that much."

"He was forty-eight then, sixty-four now… yeah; I like my men weedy and highly dedicated to me, age not being an issue as long as they take care of themselves. John, my husband, makes a point of lifting weights to keep in shipbuilding shape, and eats weeds he grows in the back garden claiming his mum swore by them and their supposed health benefits. I say it's a load of crock, but I'm not the one that dumps a large handful of sugar in each cup of my tea."

"I think tomorrow I'll invite Adrian as well," Danny muttered into his tea. He sat back and listened as his coworkers chatted, adding in the occasional agreement to let them know he was still listening. Growing up with sisters made him (mostly) impervious to all sorts of conversation topics, but the workplace was still the workplace, and maybe if he invited another bloke in they'd make more of an effort to keep things clean in case a student walked by in the corridor… or they could not. It was their choice.


	91. December 1956

"Granddad!" the kids shouted in surprise as they came in the front door. Dave Oswald bent down and hugged his grandchildren, beaming in pride.

"Hey there," he chuckled. "How are my favorite primary students doing?"

"We didn't know you were coming!" Davey exclaimed.

"Think of it as a little Christmastime treat," Dave replied. John (who was currently busying himself with putting together tea) had picked him up from the station earlier, making it so that it was the first time the kids had seen him since coming to town. He had made sure to catch an early train, so that even if he was late his grandchildren would be in school, and the two men had just been joking around and shooting the breeze the entire time since.

"Good to see you again, Dad," Clara smirked as she walked in. She kissed her father on the cheek, ignoring the small bundles of energy that were currently zooming up the stairs to change out of their uniforms. "How are things?"

"Ride was awful, as usual, but there's this new program at work that they're making me help build and—"

"Save it for after the kids are down and out," she said, cutting him off. "I'm just glad you can still make it after all this time." The two of them wandered into the sitting room and took a seat on the couch, John walking in moments later with a tea tray. "So the company isn't sending you as early as they have before; that's a relief."

"I'll be traveling during the holiday, meaning it still will feel a bit lonely, but not as bad now that I can get in a week with Davey and Wynn."

"They can put a smile on one's face, that's for sure," John agreed. He offered his father-in-law a cup, which was graciously taken, and began pouring tea for him, his wife, and kids. "It's a shame you can't come over more often—retirement's coming up soon for you, isn't it?"

"It might be… I'm not sure anymore," Dave replied, pensively sipping his tea. "I don't know if I'd have anything to do."

"You'd have grandchildren to visit, that's what," Clara quipped. She stirred her tea, looking down into the cup. "Though, if it does become too difficult to be alone, you can always come here."

"…and what, share a room with Davey?" he laughed.

"Nah; Clara and I were talking about it a couple weeks ago and we'd just redo the other sitting room, since we hardly ever use it," John replied. "Your joints are worse off than mine, so you'd get first claim to the one-story living situation."

"Isn't that _kind_ ; I think I'll take that as a compliment," Dave deadpanned. The kids then came into the sitting room and sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, taking their tea and putting in their milk and sugar. "Still heavy on the lumps there, Wynn?"

"Only because _I_ know how to drink tea," she said proudly.

"No you don't," Davey protested. "Three lumps, bit of milk."

"Eight lumps, no milk," she insisted. The siblings stared one another down, the pint-sized tension palpable, until their grandfather burst into laughter.

"Clara, it's like you've got yourselves some little clones," he chuckled. "I don't think there's been anyone so small, yet passionate about tea, since you were their age."

"She's still small and passionate about tea, but luckily she's branched out to other things as well," John smirked. His wife shot him a wide-eyed glare and kicked him in the shin.

" _John_ …" she hissed, face going red

"Hey, I have an idea," Dave said. He turned towards his grandkids and put a grin on his face. "How about if once we're done with our tea, the two of you go show me around the neighborhood. It's been a while since I've been here, and I'm not sure I remember where the park is."

"Okay!" both children said at once. They downed their tea and rushed off again to get ready and plan what they wanted to bring their grandfather around to see.

"Tea enthusiasts and full of energy… I don't know how either of you do it every day," Dave sighed.

"It's not easy," John admitted. "If it weren't for the fact I'm _very_ lucky with my health, I'd be struggling just to stay upright, let alone keep up with them."

"At least working with teenagers has shown me that they can slow down," Clara added. "With our luck they won't, but it's still worth thinking about."

"Sort of," John corrected. He glanced down into his teacup, a bit embarrassed. "The thought of them needing us less and less is nice, but it's also more than a mite terrifying."

"Well, take it from me that you never do stop being a parent, because your kids always need you," Dave replied. "They're just going to need you in different ways, and that's alright."

John was about to reply when Davey and Wynn both ran back into the sitting room, now wearing thick jumpers and scarves.

"Come on, Granddad! We can show you the park!" Wynn exclaimed.

"Yeah! Maybe some of our friends from school will be there too!" Davey continued.

"Oh, you don't want to show off an old man like me to your school mates," Dave said as his grandchildren yanked him off the couch by his arms. "Who in their right mind introduces their mates to a granddad?"

"They know Dad, and he's older than you, so it's fine!" Wynn said adamantly. She did not see it, but her father closed his eyes in a grimace at the reminder.

"Don't be too rough on your granddad and be back for dinner," Clara said, watching them go towards the front door.

"Okay," the three replied, out of sight, before the door shut and they could be seen walking down the pavement.

"He is going to need those couple months abroad just to recuperate from his own grandchildren," Clara chuckled. She shook her head and leaned back into the couch, sipping her tea, while John took the spot previously occupied by Dave and slid up next to her. "Can you see the kids' reaction if he does decide he wants to stay with us?"

" _Pandemonium_ ," he replied. He worked an arm behind her waist and allowed her to curl up halfway in his lap. "I don't know if you could handle it though: two ridiculous old men and two hyperactive children. You'd be all grey by the time the kids go off to uni."

" _God_ , don't even make me _think_ about the kids and uni," she half-groaned, half-giggled. She rested her face against his chest and exhaled happily. "I'll be sobbing uncontrollably."

" _You'll_ be sobbing uncontrollably? If I make it there I'll give the Thames a new tributary," John joked. He kissed his wife atop her head and gave her a one-armed hug. "I should make it, though… I hope I make it."

"You _will_ make it," Clara said, tone comforting. "I'll make sure of it."

* * *

Having always passed it on the way to the publishers', yet never having gone in, John suggested that in honor of Dave's first night of the week in London that the five of them would visit Mancini's Family Restaurant for dinner. Their waiter, a twitchy, odd-moving man, sat them down in a circular booth and gave them all menus to look over. The restaurant itself seemed to be almost a time capsule, the establishment taking great delight in the fact it had been around since the reign of Queen Victoria. A short while passed and the waiter came back to take their orders.

"John…?" Clara whispered as soon as the man walked away again. "Do you feel something's a little off about this place?"

"No, I don't. Why do you ask?" he wondered. He was playing noughts and crosses on the paper placemat in front of Wynn, letting his daughter win despite her clear lack of strategy.

"I just feel like we're being watched somehow," she replied. Goosebumps ran down her arms, a chill in the air affecting her. "Are you sure this place is alright?"

"I asked around at the office and everyone who visited said it was fine—maybe it's just one of the other customers giving off a bad feeling," he said. Glancing across the table at Dave, who was drawing rather poorly alongside Davey, he checked to make sure everything seemed okay. Son, father-in-law, daughter, himself, his wife; everyone was there and nothing looked out of the ordinary. The rest of the dining room seemed to be fine, with the other patrons eating and talking and laughing at one another.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's just your imagination; no worries," John murmured in Clara's ear. "Maybe it's just your mother's intuition flaring up—are you sure there aren't any little surprises you have been waiting to announce until your dad's around?"

"No! Now you stop that!" she snapped, trying to keep her voice low. "I am not pregnant, just wary!"

"Whatever you say, dearest," he chuckled.

"You two okay over there?" Dave wondered. He quirked an eyebrow at the other two adults and watched as they put some distance between them.

"We're fine—no worries," Clara said through a clenched smile. It was then that their food came, giving her a reason to sigh in relief.

As everyone ate their dinner, Clara's overall discomfort had not faded. She tried looking around casually to see if there was someone suspicious—there wasn't—and attempted to instead suppress her ill thoughts. The meal went smoothly and it wasn't until she went up to the register to pay did she realize the reason for her discomfort.

"Did you have a good meal, ma'am?" the waiter asked as he rung up the bill.

"That I did," she replied.

"I'm glad; it's a very nice thing to do, taking them all out like that," he said congenially. A red flag went up in Clara's brain, warning her that the conversation was not going to end well.

"Pardon me?"

"Taking both your father and father-in-law out for dinner with the kids, even though your husband's not around—it's very kind of you."

"Oh…" she frowned. Her eyes flickered over towards the booth and back to the waiter, who had caught on to the fact something was wrong. "Then tell me: which one is my father?"

"I… um…" He looked at the booth, attempting to cobble together his answer, only to jump as he turned his attention back to his customer. She was now smiling, sweet and syrupy and ready to kill.

"The one between the children is my father, the one I was sitting next to is my _husband_ ," she explained, teeth grit and smile straight. "I know you meant it as a compliment, so I won't make a scene, but do be careful in the future before you imply that someone's husband might actually be their father, because they might take it _worse_."

"O-of course, ma'am. My apologies, ma'am. It won't happen again, ma'am."

"Good," Clara smiled, the look on her face making the waiter's stomach drop. He watched as she made her way back to the booth to collect her family, making a point of kissing her husband full on the mouth while doing so. The husband seemed to enjoy it, despite his initial but brief confusion, reciprocating while adding in what he thought must have been a covert grab of her rear as they made their way out the door. She made sure to do the same, in plain view of the waiter, and adding in a shot of two fingers before disappearing into the London night.

Later on, after the kids were in bed and her father was comfortable on a couch in the sitting room, Clara made sure to go all-in as she pleasured her husband as covertly as possible upstairs in their bedroom. At first John was torn between the thrill of being caught and the awkwardness of being caught by _Dave_ , but as his wife continued, the latter gave way to the former and he began moaning into a pillow, same as when he did all those years ago when they lived in her Clydebank office. He never did ask why, but sometimes, it was best to let things happen.


	92. May 1957

It was a Sunday and all four of the Grynden Smiths were having tea in Sarah Jane's sitting room. Davey and Wynn were attempting to sit still in an effort to not spill tea on their aunt's good furniture, while their parents went as though nothing was the matter.

"I always feel bad whenever you two come over," Sarah Jane frowned, looking at her niece and nephew. "There's nothing ever for the two of you to do, now is there?"

"It's okay, Auntie Sarah Jane," Wynn said. "We like having tea."

"Of course you like having tea, but there's barely anything else for you to _do_ ," Sarah Jane replied. "Other than tea and reading, what else do you kids like to do? I don't see you _that_ often."

"We like football, and telly, and our paper figures, and I like my owl, and Wynn likes her bear…"

"Aren't you getting a little too old for your stuffed owl?" Clara asked. Davey shook his head quickly, the action so intense it almost made him spill tea.

"No! Don't take Randall!" he insisted. "Randall guards my room when I'm away! He's plenty mature enough! He's my _attack owl_!" He sipped his tea timidly, not seeing his sister roll her eyes in the seat next to him.

"I like dolls too, and we both like playing board games… oh, and cards," Wynn added. "I thought you said there wasn't any room for toys, so that's why we couldn't leave any here."

"This is true, although I think that might change soon," Sarah Jane explained with a grin. It was the same grin that her brother was prone to using, which her sister-in-law picked up on immediately.

"What's going on?" Clara asked.

"Oh… I think you'll find out soon enough," she chuckled.

"That's _mean_ Auntie Sarah Jane," Davey said. "Why can't we know _now_?"

"Because once the cat's out of the bag, I doubt there's going to be much stopping the news from spreading," Sarah Jane said.

"Well that doesn't sound like any fun," Davey muttered. He finished off his tea and gently placed his mug down on the tray. "Mum, may I please be excused? I'm going to go out to the back garden."

"As long as you take Wynn with you," Clara said. The girl downed her tea quickly and followed her brother out the room and to the back door.

"Make sure you pick some rosemary off the bush before you come back in!" Sarah Jane called after them. She turned back towards John and Clara to find that they were staring at her intently.

"Okay, what's going on? You're _never_ this secretive, Sarah Jane," John deadpanned.

"Wynn's dress she wore on Easter is still good, yeah?" his sister asked. "I wouldn't think she'd grow that much in a month. What about Davey's suit? Neither of them look like they're in growth spurts…"

"Why do you care about their clothes?" John wondered, furrowing his brow in confusion. Clara gently backhanded his chest and tutted, ordering him to shut up.

"Are you thinking that we might need to find a flower girl soon?" she asked.

"A flower girl and a ring bearer, if Orson's not up to the challenge," Sarah Jane replied, almost giggling.

"I haven't heard you emit that high a pitch since you got accepted to that newspaper writing; the one Dad pitched a fit over," John said.

"Okay, yeah, being an overseas investigative reporter _was_ a bit risky at the time for a woman, so now I understand where he was coming from, but I still stand by both my decision and the fact he was horribly overreacting," she nodded resolutely.

"You needed a Lucy, not a Luke," he sighed. It was then that the front door opened and his aforementioned nephew came in the house with Gwen, the latter wearing a dumbstruck look upon her face.

"…and…?" Sarah Jane asked. The young woman held out her left hand, showing her engagement ring. Sarah Jane and Clara both gasped happily, jumping up from their seats and dashing to hug her. Luke was able to escape his mother and aunt, instead choosing to sit down on the couch next to his uncle.

"I'm just glad that's over," he exhaled. He leaned into the couch and rested his head against the back, closing his eyes. "I could barely get a syllable out."

"Five years is a long time to keep a lass waiting, but I'm sure she could wait long enough for you to ask one question," John smirked, patting his nephew on the shoulder. "What does everyone else think?"

"Well, I asked Ruby first if she would be alright with it, and she said she got over anything odd about me being with her sister a long time ago," Luke said, incredibly sedate. "Then I asked both Danny _and_ Lucie's permission…"

"Good call; having both the living parent and surrogate parent on your side work wonders." John thought for a moment and then snickered. "You've already done better than I did—it took five months of marriage before I even _met_ your Aunt Clara's dad."

"…and you had married her after knowing her four months; that's guts," Luke laughed. He opened his eyes back up and smiled at the ladies, who were debating on whether or not to get the kids from the back garden. "I just want Mum to be able to enjoy having more family while she can—she's not getting any younger, and I owe her that much."

"What, you're saying you owe my sister grandkids?" John snorted. "Nah; she wouldn't know how to change a nappy if her life depended on it. You don't owe her anything like that."

"Even if Gwen and I can't have kids, I'll give Mum a daughter-in-law. If it wasn't for her, I would have ended up in a children's home and it's much harder on a person coming from those places, even if plenty of decent people my age came from them." The younger man then palmed his right eye, trying to wipe away tears without looking like he was crying. "Now I'm an electrical engineer, with a degree and a job and enough money to get a flat to move into with my wife." He paused and bit his lip, everything finally crashing down on him. "I'm g-going t-t-to b-be married."

"Couldn't have happened to a better pair," John chuckled.

* * *

The ceremony was on the last day of the month, in the evening when the vicar was free and everyone else was off of work. It wasn't large or extravagant, though Clara and John had been careful to note that it was bigger an ordeal than they had, so everything was fine. Danny walked his sister down the aisle and was a huge, sobbing mess. Most of those in attendance were a sobbing mess, as a matter of fact, with Sarah Jane and Lucie Miller nearly having a competition. Everyone was overjoyed, and that was the point.

* * *

"Mum? Dad?" Davey asked hazily. He was in the back seat of the car, curled up with his sleeping sister, the family having just left the reception at Sarah Jane's. The wedding had been small enough for them to have dinner in the back garden, with help from a couple extra tables and chairs.

"What is it, son?" John replied.

"What was your wedding like?"

"We went to the courthouse after I got off work one afternoon," Clara said. She turned to look at her son, who was beginning to drift off due to the late hour. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering," he said. "They took a lot of photos today—do you have photos?"

"No, not anymore," John sighed. "We lost them the night we lost the house in Clydebank."

"Oh, I'm sorry…"

"Don't be," Clara hushed. She reached back and smoothed out her son's hair. "Just get some rest; we'll be home before you know it."

"Okay…" He shoved Wynn with his elbow to get some space between them and laid his head down in her lap, going to sleep.

The car stayed silent for a moment, John slowly navigating the dark London streets. Clara eventually took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together as they rested on the bench seat between them.

"I don't regret it," she whispered, in case either child was awake. "I never have, and I never will."

"We never took a picture that day," he murmured. "We have nearly _nothing_ from our first year thanks to that raid."

"We have a niece—that's what we have," she reminded him. "Plenty of other things survived, but they're just things. We made it, just like I hope Luke and Gwen make it."

"Oh, I'm sure they will," he assured. "They're both Smiths now, and Smiths are capable of doing incredible things when you least expect it."

"Something I'm definitely learning every day, thanks to both my husband and our children," she mentioned.

"Don't forget you, Clara. You're just as much a Smith as you are an Oswald, and I can't begin to start on how much that humbles me."

"I think I have an idea," she replied, her mouth twitching up into a grin. "Thank you."

"No, thank _you_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that Luke in this chapter is around twenty-four, and Gwen is around twenty-five. Our precious little things are actually all grown up.


	93. August 1957

It had been steamy and sticky all day long, meaning that the Smiths' master bedroom window was open and only a sheet covered the occupants of the bed. John and Clara were pressed close together, as usual, despite the heat threatening their comfort.

"John?"

"Yes Clara?"

"What do you think we should get Wynn for her birthday?"

"Oh, that's coming up now, isn't it?" he murmured. "She doesn't seem to want much, our Wynn."

"Great ten months out of the year, terrible during August and December," Clara sighed. "I don't necessarily want to start the years of giving her clothes for her birthday yet."

"Yeah, it'd be better to hold off on that as long as possible," he agreed. John thought for a moment, resting his chin atop his wife's head. "What do you think about getting her a pet? I wouldn't say she's reckless, but she needs to learn a bit more responsibility than Davey does."

"No pets, because otherwise _we_ are taking care of the thing," she stated. "I don't need something peeing all over the rug or scratching up my furniture or waking us up at odd hours of the night."

"I'm sure there's something that doesn't do any of that," he said. "How about this: I take her down to the shop and we go over the requirements. If there's anything that fits the bill, we get it, and if there's nothing that does, at least she gets a chance to look at the animals and think about what she wants for later on when she can be responsible enough."

"I don't think it's a very good idea, but since I've got nothing else, go ahead and try it," she sighed. "Just remember that it's you that has to take care of her when she cries about being promised a pet and can't get one, _and_ Davey if he's jealous… oh, and nothing that requires a fish tank—even if you keep it up it can easily turn on you."

"Duly noted; not to worry; my dad skills have only gotten sharper as the years have gone on, so I'm sure we can find something," he smirked. Pulling her close, John grinned at the darkness, glad that he was the victor, despite the potential peril to be had.

* * *

The next day, John came down the stairs for lunch to find that his family had already started eating without him. He sat down at the table and began to slowly chew on his food, watching the kids closely.

"What's the matter, Dad?" Davey wondered.

"Oh, nothing's the matter," he replied. "I was just thinking about Wynn's birthday. That's in a week, right?"

"Five days!" Wynn giggled. "What were you thinking about _exactly_?"

"I was thinking that, maybe, if your mam thinks it's alright, I take half a day today and we can go down to the store and fetch it."

The girl's eyes lit up in delight. "Oh, can we, Mum? Please?!"

"I think that is entirely up to your father," Clara said.

"Then hurry up so that you can get ready to go," John told their daughter. Wynn stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth and slipped off her chair, running off towards the stairs.

" _Chew your food!_ " Clara scolded. She shook her head and returned to her own lunch, not willing to go much further.

"What's Wynn's gift?" Davey asked. "Can I know?"

"We don't know if it's official yet," Clara said. "Though it's more a series of exercises than it is a gift."

"Oh… then I don't think I want to know," he frowned. Wynn then rushed back into the kitchen, almost tripping over herself as she skidded to a halt.

"Okay, ready!" she announced. She had put on a nice hat and braided her hair so it sat neatly against her back.

"That was quick—let me at least have a chance to eat my food," John laughed. His daughter bounced in place as she watched him impatiently. The moment he was done she took him by the hand and dragged him out of the kitchen and towards the front door. As soon as his shoes and hat were on, they were off.

Skipping along as she went ahead, Wynn made her way to the bus stop with her father not too far behind. She waited excitedly by the sign, only to be very confused as John did not stop.

"Um, Dad? Where are we going?" she asked as she caught up to him.

"The store," he replied.

"…but, we passed the bus stop. Don't we have to use the bus to get to the store?"

"We're going to a different store—one that we've never gone to and is just a couple blocks over."

"Oh, okay," she said, taking his hand. They continued walking together until they came to a street that was lined with shops instead of houses. John waited until they were a couple doors down from the pet shop before stopping to bend down and talk to his daughter.

"Alright sweetling, we're almost there," he said. "Before you know what your present is, I have to warn you that we might not find something and have to go with a different thing."

"How come?" she wondered.

"Because Mam and I agree that it has to be something _you_ take care of, so it can't be something that makes a big mess."

Wynn tilted her head to the side, her brows rising in curiosity. "You're getting me a paint set?"

"Not necessarily," he chuckled. "Now let's get a move on." He pretended to walk past the pet store, with Wynn holding back.

"I want to look at the puppies," she said. "Can I? Just for a minute?"

"Sure," he smirked. John watched as she pressed her nose against the window, giggling as one of the puppies tried to lick her through the glass. "Tell me: do you want a puppy?"

"A puppy would be nice, but some puppies grow up to be really big, and I don't know if Mum would want a really big dog in the house," she sighed.

"I think you're right on that part," he agreed. "I think, if you were to have a pet, it would have to be small, something that you could easily carry and care for, that isn't prone to ruining the rug or furniture."

"Do you think there's a pet like that?" she asked timidly.

"Well, then why don't we go inside and find out?" John grinned as his daughter's eyes went wide and she jumped about excitedly.

* * *

Clara was sitting down in the kitchen, books and papers spread before her. It was nearly time to have her yearly lesson plan turned into the school so it could be approved and she wanted it to be perfect. She took a sip of tea from the cup she had perilously sitting amongst everything, and leaned back in the chair in order to ponder the legitimacy of allowing some of her older students to write up reports on books like _Casino Royale_ , which had been something many had wanted to do the year before.

Less than a minute of actual pondering happened before the front door opened and Wynn came zooming into the house. The girl nearly slid on the floor in her stocking feet, holding in her arms a small, black rabbit.

"Mum! Mum! Look what Dad got me for my birthday!" she exclaimed. "I have a pet bunny!"

"I can see that," Clara replied, one eyebrow arching up. "I take it the two of you had a talk about being responsible?"

"Yeah, we did!" Wynn said. She put the rabbit down on the countertop and rummaged through a drawer, from which she took a piece of twine to wrap around the rabbit's neck like a leash. "I'm gonna take him outside now!"

"Go ahead sweetie," Clara said. As Wynn went out into the back garden, John came into the kitchen, a bag of hay tucked under one arm and his other hand occupied by a book.

"So, did you meet the newest member of the family?" he asked.

"A rabbit," his wife deadpanned. "Rabbits will eat paper if you let them. _Paper_. You work in _books_ and _artwork_."

"It'll be fine; we'll build a hutch outside for most of the time, and when it's too hot or too cold we can keep the cage in her room or in the basement," he defended. "The cage is sitting in the foyer now; just have to set it up."

"This is your bed, now go lay in it," she said flatly. It was just then that Davey wandered into the kitchen with a confused look on his face.

"What's with the thing by the stairs?" he asked.

"It's for your sister's birthday present," John explained.

"What's that…?" On cue, Wynn came back into the house, holding her rabbit carefully as she carried him in.

"Davey! Look what I got!" she squealed. She brought the rabbit over to her brother and let him pet its soft fur. "His name is Dillon!"

"Oh, so you named him already?" John smirked. "Why Dillon?"

"Because he likes to eat your dill plants," she elaborated. "Come on, Davey, let's go have Dillon hop around in the basement where he can't run away!"

"Okay, sure," he replied, not sure whether or not he should be impressed. The siblings went out of the room and towards the staircase that led into the basement.

"You still got our daughter one of the easiest pets to lose," Clara frowned as soon as she was sure her children were out of earshot.

"Hence the hutch I need to build, the cage, and why I told her to keep the thing tied up if she brought him outside," John reminded her. He put the book down—a how-to guide for keeping house rabbits—and went to go put the bag in the basement where it was cool and dry.


	94. Late October 1957

John set out mugs and the biscuit tin on the kitchen table and sat down, waiting patiently for his children to return home from school. He wasn't always good at the patient part of waiting, especially when they first began walking home without him or Clara at their sides the year before, but now he was becoming particularly adept at it.

A few minutes of sitting and sipping his tea passed and finally Davey and Wynn came in through the front door. They immediately made their way back to the kitchen, with the latter sitting down in her chair while the former took a couple biscuits and his tea before bolting up the stairs.

"What's wrong with your brother, sweetling?" John asked. "Did something bad happen at school today?"

"He thinks it's bad, but I keep on telling him not to worry about it," Wynn shrugged. She stuffed an entire biscuit in her mouth while she carefully plopped sugar cubes in her tea. "Gracie went and kissed him today during recess."

"Oh really now?" he replied. "What did you do?"

"I was on the other side of the play area," she said. "I keep on telling him to make up a girlfriend, since it makes things a lot easier, but he won't listen because it's lying."

Nodding, John took a sip of his tea before clearing his throat. "Davey is right that you shouldn't lie, but I wonder if this is a good place to use a 'little white lie' in order to keep feelings from being hurt."

"You mean the 'okay-lie'? Mum says I can make up something to do at home if I ever don't feel like going to someone's house after school."

"Yes, like that," he said. "Does Davey know about the 'okay-lie'?"

"I dunno, but he probably wouldn't like it anyway," Wynn muttered sourly. She slumped down in the chair, clearly miffed about the topic.

"You stay here; I'm going to go see if I can talk to him," John said. He pat his daughter on the head as he got up and left the kitchen. Going up the stairs, he went over to his son's room and knocked on the door. "Davey? You in there, son?"

"Yeah," was the response. John opened the door and found Davey sitting at his desk, a book and pad of paper laid out in front of him in order to do homework. His tea and biscuits sat on a napkin on the desk, right next to his toy owl. John sat down on the bed and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Wynn told me you've got a bit of a problem," he said. "What's going on?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Davey grumbled. He took a biscuit and munched on it, trying desperately to act as aloof as a nine-year-old could. "It's just stupid."

"What's stupid?"

"Gracie," he said. Once it was clear that his father was not leaving, the boy began to elaborate. "She kissed me today, even though I told her I'm not allowed to have a girlfriend until I'm sixteen, like you and mum said."

"We _would_ prefer you to be sixteen before you start dating, yes, but why did she want to kiss you so badly? Didn't you tell her to stop?"

"I wanted to, but I couldn't find my voice. I just kinda… froze." Davey took his owl toy from the desk and held it in his hands, playing idly with the wings to make it look like it was flying. "Wynn said I should make someone up like she does, but that's not fair or right."

"Does Wynn get a lot of boys wanting to kiss her?" John asked. He hoped that diverting the subject of the conversation slightly would help get his son to talk more openly.

"Yeah, but she either punches them in the face or tells them she's seeing Orson since he doesn't go to our school. I keep on telling her that she's gonna get in trouble when we _do_ finally go to the same school as him, but she won't listen." Davey then hugged his owl, using it to gather strength. "I just don't know, Dad. This is all so weird and complicated."

"Would you like some advice?" John offered. Davey nodded in reply. "I say that if Gracie tries to do that again, you go and tell the teacher if she doesn't stop after you tell her no. The same goes for if a boy tries to kiss Wynn, because the two of you need to watch out for one another."

"…but Wynn doesn't do anything but tell me I should lie."

"Sometimes lies that are told to keep people from doing things are good to tell." He then pondered for a moment before an odd thought went through his head. "Say, do you actually want to be kissed by a _girl_ when you're ready for it?"

"Well, yeah, of course I do," Davey replied, utterly confused. "If I'm ready for that, I think it would be a girl. _Are_ there even boys that are like Miss Vastra and Miss Jenny?"

"I've known my fair share back in my younger years, so yes," John said. "Just checking; it wouldn't have been anything bad in my book, trust me. Now, are you going to try telling the teacher?"

"You don't understand, Dad," Davey groused. "Gracie just pretends she doesn't know what's going on if she gets in trouble! Telling the teacher will just get _me_ in trouble."

"You know, I had girl problems when I was your age," John stated. "Her name was Caitlin and she was utterly bananas about me and a couple of our classmates. None of us told the teacher about anything, afraid that we'd be written off as liars because her grandfather was an important professor in one of the Glasgow universities who had friends in business that could affect our mams and dads' jobs. Want to know what finally made her stop?"

"…what?"

"There was a new girl in school one year that she took a shine to, and that Christmas she gave her a card that said she was going to kill her and keep her body as a play doll." Davey's eyes went wide in horror, unsure if he should believe his father or not. "She told the teacher and, as it turned out, the whole family was like that: screaming mad and not a repentant one amongst them. None of them had done anything to that point, but it was still enough to lock them all up to help make them less crazy and keep the rest of us safe." John patted his son on the shoulder, hoping he didn't overdo it. "Now I'm not saying that Gracie is _that_ dangerous—in fact, I'm sure she's rather nice—but if you don't learn to stick up for yourself now, there might be a Caitlin somewhere down the line."

"Gracie isn't bad like Caitlin, but I'd rather just get her in regular trouble, not leave-forever trouble."

"I'm glad to hear that, so be sure to act sooner rather than later, or you never know what's going to happen."

"…but Dad?" Davey whimpered. "What if she _still_ doesn't stop? I know you tell Wynn to just punch boys, but I can't punch a girl even if you told me to."

"That's right, because if a boy doesn't listen after telling him and the teacher to make it stop, he likely only listens to force, which isn't very good at all, but girls have enough to worry about," John said. "If telling the teacher doesn't work, then tell your mam or me and we can help figure something out."

Davey made a little noise in reply and reached for his textbook, dragging it into his lap and beginning to read it with his stuffed owl nestled in the crook of his elbow. John took that as his cue to leave, getting up from the bed and closing the door behind him softly on his way out. He went back down the stairs to find that Clara had just arrived home for the day, her work bag thrown over one shoulder and the shopping for the night's dinner clutched in her hand.

"How are things?" she asked, perching on her toes to give him a quick kiss.

"Sounds like Davey's having girl troubles… again," he replied. "I tried telling him that he has to nip it at the bud, but he doesn't sound very convinced."

"Soft like his dad; won't have to worry about him giving us grandchildren before we're ready," she chuckled. She waited while Wynn ran through the house, giving a quick greeting as she rushed up the stairs and over to her own room. "That one, on the other hand, I don't know if it will be grandchildren before we're ready or grandchildren at all."

"Our Wynn? Nah; she's going to be like her mam and have her children precisely when she means to," John teased.

"You haven't watched her with Orson lately, have you? She doesn't know it, but that girl is going to fall _hard_ when it comes time," Clara deadpanned, walking past her husband and towards the kitchen. She could hear him sputtering helplessly behind her, the sound of a father who was not only horrified of the years that were soon to come, but also hoping that she was merely pulling his leg.

* * *

The following day, John went about his afternoon routine as normally as possible. He began setting up tea a few minutes before the kids were scheduled to get out of school, greeted his wife as she came home without detouring to the grocers' first, and was able to get in a couple playful grabs before the bairns burst through the door. The two adults sat at the table, attempting to act as if nothing had been happening, only to be shocked as Wynn came into the kitchen with a bloody nose and scratches all on her face.

"Oh my gosh, Oswynne! What happened?!" Clara gasped. She led her daughter over to the sink, where she got a washcloth wet and began wiping up the blood. "How on _earth_ did you end up looking like this?"

"Fell," she replied curtly. Clara glanced over towards the kitchen door and saw Davey nervously standing just inside the hallway. "David? What happened?"

"I-I'm sorry… it's my fault," he said. "I told the teacher Gracie wouldn't leave me alone during lunch, and then she and Wynn got into a big fight after school."

"You got in a fight?!"

"Only 'cause she wouldn't stop bothering Davey!" Wynn defended. "I told her to bug off and she wouldn't, so I decked her. Just because boys shouldn't hit girls doesn't mean _girls_ can't hit other girls."

"You shouldn't hit, _period_ ," Clara scolded. "Now go put a bag of peas over your eye before it starts to swell and go to your room." The girl grouchily fetched a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and went upstairs, leaving her parents and brother alone.

"David, come here please," John said, patting the chair next to him. Davey frowned as he sat down, keeping his eyes focused on the floor. "What happened, _exactly_?"

"It was like Wynn said," he mumbled. "Because the teacher didn't do anything about Gracie, she decided to stop it herself. I didn't want her to, but she did, and now I bet Gracie's crying to her mum right now and then we'll be in even _bigger_ trouble…" He then began to sniffle, absolutely terrified of the concept.

"You haven't even hit puberty yet—if _I_ make it through to your uni years it will be a _miracle_ ," Clara huffed, storming out of the kitchen.

"Dad? Do you think the teacher will believe _now_?" Davey wondered.

"Maybe, son," John replied, exhaling heavily. "I wish it hadn't come to blows, but you've got a firecracker of a sister; no one's making unwanted moves on her brother without paying the price."

"All this is dumb," Davey said. He took a biscuit from the tin on the table and ate it slowly. "Dad…?"

"Yes?"

"Can puberty really kill Mum? I don't want her to die because Wynn and I are getting older."

"Not to worry, my boy," John laughed. "I think what your mam means is that she hopes her hair doesn't all go as grey as mine before you're off to uni; she likes to be overdramatic at times."

"Oh yeah, that's right," the boy agreed. He reached for another biscuit as Clara came back in the room and sat at the table again.

"Called Gracie's mum and she's going to straighten it all out since you kids can't seem to figure things out on your own," she said brusquely. She took a long drink of her tea and breathed deeply in an effort to calm down. "She seemed very obliging once I told her I knew why her daughter came slinking into the house looking worse than Wynn from the sounds of it."

"You know Gracie's mum?" Davey marveled.

"Yeah; I know everyone's mum. Didn't you know that?" Clara explained, deadly serious. "There's an international network of mums that all keep in touch just so that their children behave when they're supposed to, because they raised them better than to fight and pick on one another."

"Oh… can I take my tea up to my room?"

"Bring your mug back when you're done," she said. Davey took his tea and vacated the kitchen as quickly as he could, horrified at the thought of a huge network of mothers making sure he stayed in-line. Clara moaned and held her face in her hands, up to her ears in frustration. "What are we going to do with them?"

"What we've always been doing, I guess," John answered. "Our best. At least it sounded like Wynn came out with the upper-hand."

"Now don't you start," she snapped, furrowing her brow disapprovingly at her husband. "She is _not_ to be applauded for this."

"Not to her _face_ , for a while, anyway," he defended. He rubbed his foot up against Clara's calf, letting her know it was alright and knowing fully that they'd both rather have Wynn be the brash one of the pair.


	95. April 1958

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Dad?" Wynn wondered. She tilted her head as she watched her father attempt to tie a large canvas bundle to the top of the car.

"Of course I do, sweetling," he replied. "I went camping with some of my mates during university, and while I was in the Army it's partly how I lived. It's like riding a bicycle."

"Then you haven't ridden a bicycle in a long, _long_ time," Wynn commented. John frowned at her disapprovingly.

"Not _that_ long."

"Then why do you keep on saying that those days are ancient history?"

"It's called _a joke_ ," her father grumbled. He then raised his voice towards the house. "Clara! Your daughter is sassing her old man again!"

"Keep up the good work, sweetie!" shouted from inside the house. Wynn grinned at her father and ran back into the house, almost barreling over Davey as he made his way out with his school bag bursting full of things in one arm and a pillow and blanket tucked under the other.

"What do you have there?" John asked as the boy sourly opened up the back door and began setting up his things on the floorboards.

"Essentials," Davey stated. Apparently, "essentials" consisted of various books, a torch, Randall the Owl, some bags of crisps and biscuits, a couple bottles of soda pop, a notepad, several pencils, and a small portable radio with extra batteries that he tucked underneath the passenger side of the front seat.

"Son, we're only going to Essex for _three days_ ; you don't need all that."

"Yes I do," he muttered. Leaving the door open, Davey climbed into the car and laid down in his spot, determined to not do anything else. John simply rolled his eyes and went back inside the house, mentally checking off a list in his head.

"Let's see… suitcases in the boot, fishing rods and tackle also in the boot, tent supplies—boot, tent itself is on the top of the car, Davey and his essentials are in the back seat… Wynn? How are you coming?"

"Almost done!" she replied, voice filtering down from the top of the stairs. John then went to the kitchen in the back of the house, where Clara was finishing packing up their food.

"Think you have enough?" John teased as he watched her stuff a third basket full of stuff. Granted they weren't very large baskets, but the other two were nearly overflowing.

"I don't want to assume that you and the kids are going to catch enough fish to feed us all every night," she replied. "I've got dry sandwiches and dressing and fruit and…"

"We'll be _fine_ , Clara," he chuckled. He kissed his wife atop her head and gave her a one-armed hug. "You and the kids are going to have a great time, I promise." Shaking his head, he grabbed some twine from the drawer and tie the basket lids in place. "I can't believe I'm the only one out of the lot of us who had ever gone camping before. Didn't your dad ever take you?"

"No, because my dad is a sensible human being who enjoys things such as _civilization_ and _electricity_ and _indoor plumbing_ ," she snarked. "I trust you when you say that this is going to be fun, but I have my doubts."

"Watch: once we get out there, it's going to be just _splendid_ ," John grinned. He then helped Clara take the baskets out to the car. Once they were sitting on one side of the back bench seat, and Wynn and her things were stuffed into the other half (as well as the shelf by the back windscreen), the Smiths set off for their countryside holiday.

* * *

Three hours and five detours later, the car was parked on the side of a seldom-worn path in a wood and preparations were being made to set up camp for the night in the nearby clearing. John and Wynn were taking down the tent from the top of the car, while Clara was taking out a basket of food and a blanket to eat on, and Davey was refusing to leave the nest he made on the floorboards.

"It's _cold_ ," he whined, blanket wrapped firmly around him.

"David James Smith, get your rear end out here and help me with dinner or you're going to starve tonight," Clara warned. Her son reluctantly abandoned his blanket and left his owl to guard his things as he went to help.

"You seem cranky, Mum," he noted.

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm away from my modern appliances and a proper toilet," she grumbled lowly. "This was not my idea—remember that."

"If you don't want to be here, then why _are_ we here?" Davey whispered.

"…because some things are better if you shut up and go with it, especially when it comes to your father," she explained. Clara glanced over her shoulder and watched as Wynn tried opening the canvas bundle, dropping tent poles on John's foot.

"It's because of how old Dad is, isn't it?" he asked.

"He's still in good health, so we're taking advantage of that for as long as we can," Clara said resolutely. She then handed him a pail that she had packed and pointed into the wood. "There should be a stream out there; I need some water to boil for tea."

"Okay," he said, taking the pail in resignation. He disappeared off amongst the trees and Clara continued to set things up for dinner. By the time Davey returned, she had a pile of sticks and small branches that she wanted to use for kindling and was waiting for John to help with the fire.

It took a while, but eventually the tent was set up, the campfire was roaring, and a modest dinner of sandwiches was served, as it had been decided that fishing was to be saved for the next day. Light from the sun filtered in through the trees as it set in the west, bringing darkness to the camp. Before it became completely dark, Davey went back into the car, shutting the door behind him.

"Son, get out of there," John said, dull annoyance in his voice. "The dark's not going to kill you."

Davey rolled down the back car window and poked his head out. "It's not the dark!"

"Then what is it?"

"Badgers!"

Clara and John looked at one another, patience wearing thin.

"What makes you think that we're under threat from badgers?" Clara asked.

"Orson said that they were attacked by a wild badger last time he went camping with his dad and Luke!" her son protested.

"…and when did he tell you this?"

"When Mr. Pink came over to drop off the tent and pick up Dillon and Flynn," he explained. "He said that badgers can smell our rabbits' scents on us!"

"David, as long as we don't attack a badger, a badger won't attack us," John sighed heavily. Davey rolled up the window and stayed inside, refusing to come out.

"If he wants to be like that, then let him," Clara said, touching John's arm gently. He huffed in irritation, as the perfect holiday he had planned was falling apart at the seams.

"Don't worry, Dad; I still like camping," Wynn assured him. "If any badger tries to attack us, I'll just kick it in the face!" She stood up and demonstrated, sending clods of dirt flying in the process.

"Don't do that—anyone that gets attacked by a badger very likely _deserves it_ ," John said. He forced a smile in an effort to cheer himself up. "That's alright though. This just means it's me and my favorite two ladies roughing it in the wood."

"I'm telling Auntie Sarah Jane you said that," Wynn giggled. She sat back down on the side of her father not occupied by her mother and snuggled in for warmth. "Dad? Why is Davey such a bore sometimes?"

"Your brother's not a bore—he's just _cautious_ , is all," John said. "I was a lot like him when I was younger myself."

"No wonder Auntie Sarah Jane ran away," Wynn mused. John rested his chin on Clara's head and tried to let the comment bounce off him.

"Yeah, no wonder," he said.

* * *

Over in the car, Davey was huddled underneath his blanket, reading by the light of his torch and happily munching on a bag of crisps. With his sleeping bag laid out on the floor as a cushion, Randall safely nestled between his book and the car door, and the radio playing some music off a fuzzy signal, he felt much more secure than he knew he would laying down in the tent. He knew his dad was trying to make it a fun trip, but what he was _certain_ of was that he'd much rather be back at their warm house, with his bunny lazily lopping along in his room while he read on the floor. There was no such thing as a threat of badgers, nor the bugs that made their way into his sandwiches, nor the funny-tasting tea that was made from funny-tasting water while he was at home, and he liked that.

Eventually Davey rolled up the chip bag and hid it underneath the front seat again as he readied for bed. He changed into his pajamas (which he had hidden in his pillowcase before even leaving the house), put away his book and the radio, and cuddled up with his stuffed owl as he hunkered down. His cocoon of blankets was nice and cozy, helping to lull him towards sleep.

Just before he fell fully asleep, however, tiny _plip-plop_ sounds began hitting down on the roof and windows of the car. Davey opened his eyes and shined the torch through the back windscreen—a light drizzle of rain. The tent was supposed to be rain-proofed, so he wasn't _too_ worried about being disturbed.

It wasn't until he woke up in the morning with Wynn lying atop his blankets and his parents curled up in the front seat did he realize that the rain ended up being more than just a slight shower. He was the more sensible one, after all, and used that knowledge to go back to sleep for a little while longer.


	96. November 1958

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon as Clara busied herself in the kitchen. One of the things that she had been most excited about when it came to going back to work was that she could finally get out of said room, but it had proved to be one of the better places to spread out and do her marking and lesson planning, to her chagrin. At least the loudest two members of the house were out on a trip, leaving everything in a state of relative peace.

"Mum, do you think you can write my teacher and get me out of this report?" Clara glanced up and saw her son sit down at the table.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, playing along. There was no way she was going to get him out of doing any work unless it was deemed _absolutely_ necessary. "Is the book bad?"

"It's not _bad_ … I just don't know if I like it," he said. "I know Mr. Taylor went through a lot of trouble getting us new books to read, but it seems a bit silly for us to be reading _now_."

"How come? Do you think it's too difficult?" she asked.

"No, it's too _easy_ and _boring_!" Davey moaned. "I'm _ten_! I don't need to be reading about bears from Peru and how they don't know about English customs because it's _a bear from Peru_. That just seems so irritating."

"Being the test audience for your father's books has left you a little jaded, hasn't it?" Clara deadpanned.

"All I know is that I'm really bored and I don't know how to tell Mr. Taylor that I think we need a bit more of a challenge," he replied. "I thought school was supposed to make me smart, not make me feel like my mind is rotting."

"Just because you're bored doesn't mean that everyone else isn't," his mother said gently. "I can assure you that some children are having trouble with their reports, and not because they're dense either."

"Then why do I have to sit around while everyone else is dragging through everything? Am I in the wrong level?"

"No, you're in _exactly_ the level you should be in." This time Clara was stern, squashing any sense of superiority her son might be forming when it came to his peers. "Wynn is in the exact same class and she's almost a year younger than you; she keeps up just as well as you do, so by your logic she should be in a level higher too, correct?"

"Yeah, but she's also my _younger_ sister. We aren't twins."

"You both were born at an awkward time of the year when it came to the school level cutoff, so you're just going to have to deal with it."

"I'm going to _die_ before I even reach secondary," Davey muttered, sinking down in the chair.

"Oh, you poor baby; how ever will you deal?" Clara asked dully. This certainly was big talk for a child who still needed to tote around a stuffed animal as if it were a security blanket. "Why don't you start by going and finishing off your report like you were supposed to do last night already? If you'd done it then, you wouldn't be here suffering."

"…but Flynn needed some exercise, so I had to watch him as he went around my room _and_ he needed his cage cleaned!" he insisted.

"Uh-huh, now go and I don't want to see you again until it's teatime," she ordered. Davey rolled off the chair and stormed away, grumbling under his breath. It wasn't _fair_ that the rest of his classmates were so behind.

* * *

Meanwhile, John and Wynn were in a completely different part of town, navigating the hustle and bustle as they made their way through Earl's Court to the exhibition center. The nine-year-old was so excited that she could barely contain herself.

"Everyone at school is going to be _so jealous_ that I got to go!" she exclaimed. She twirled as she bounced down the street, making herself so dizzy she almost fell over.

"Be careful now; we don't need you hurting yourself before we even get in," her father chuckled as he caught her.

They went to the ticket counter and paid admission, gaining access to the exhibition hall. Inside there was a huge array of computers on display, some as big as a small room itself, while others were only as big as two adults standing side-by-side. Most of the other spectators were older than Wynn by at least ten or fifteen years, but that didn't stop her from being wide-eyed and completely immersed in what was going on.

"Wow… so these machines do all sorts of maths really quickly that would take us _ages_ to figure out?" she marveled.

"That's how I understand it," John said. He glanced down at the presentation placard for the computer they were standing in front of and quickly skimmed it. "Apparently it reads its own language off a card."

"Actually, most tend to use a series of cards," corrected a man that was standing nearby. "Anyone with enough know-how can write a new program for a computer to perform, compared to a calculator that can only do so much."

"We have calculators in school!" Wynn piped up. "They're kinda bulky, so we don't use them often, but they're fun to use!"

"A calculator can't do things with letters though," the man explained. "Tell me, sweetie, what's your name?"

"Oswynne; O-S-W-Y-N-N-E," she announced proudly.

"Then why don't you come over here, Miss Oswynne?" he asked.

Wynn looked up at her father and he nudged her along. She then followed the man over to a table where there were a bunch of stiff paper cards alongside a keypunch machine. He instructed her on how to use the keypunch and let her type out a card. They then brought it over to where the computer's card input was and they fed it in. The card spat back out into a tray, while a tickertape on another side of the computer fed out a reading.

"Now, let's see if we were able to do it correctly," the man said. He examined what had just printed and grinned. "Yup, we're good! Congratulations, Miss Oswynne: you are now a computer programmer." He ripped off the tape and held it out towards her. It read in a neat and tidy print "OSWYNNE".

"Oh, _wow_!" she gasped. "Can I keep it?!"

"Of course; the card too," he said. With the card and tape in-hand, Wynn returned to John's side, ecstatic.

"Look! Look what I told the computer to print, Dad!" she squealed, holding it out towards him.

"Would you look at that…? I can imagine you could do brilliantly in telling computers what to do," he beamed. "I think you'd have to start keeping up in maths though."

"Maths is dumb, but this is _neat_."

"Something tells me that maths is the boring start to the neat time you can have with these contraptions." His eyes flickered over to where the man was standing, now instructing another visitor in how to operate the keypunch. "Maybe we should have a talk with Ruby; she likes to talk about some work she gets to do every so often with a computer, and I think I remember hearing Gwen talk about a summer job she had at the end of the war that involved sorting these things." He tapped the punch card, raising an eyebrow cheekily. "What do you say?"

"That sounds interesting," she replied. They held hands and continued to walk through the exhibition center, looking at the other displays. "When are Gwen and Luke coming over to Auntie Sarah Jane's for Sunday dinner next?"

"Well, they were there last weekend, so I imagine they'll be there a week from tomorrow," John assumed. "We could be in luck and we only have to wait until _tomorrow_. How about that?"

"That sounds _lovely_!"

* * *

It was late by the time father and daughter returned home from the computer show. When they did walk in through the front door, Clara was there to greet them, exhaling in relief.

"I was beginning to worry about the two of you," she said. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and her husband's lips, thankful they were there. "What took you so long?"

"We lost track of time, and then once we hopped on the bus, it broke down halfway through the route," John explained. "I had a feeling we should have gone in the car."

"Mum, Mum, look what I did!" Wynn said, bouncing up and down. She handed over her punch card and ticker tape without explaining a thing.

"You typed your name on some tape?"

"I told the _computer_ to type my name on some tape!" the girl said happily. "I'm gonna go show Davey!" She took the items back and began to head towards the stairs.

"Be careful—he's grumpy," Clara warned, "and come straight down so you can eat dinner. I saved you a plate."

"Okay, thanks Mum!" Wynn said before disappearing up the stairwell.

"Is there anything left for me?" John smirked.

"Two plates in the oven and Davey and I already ate," Clara replied. "I swear, he was such a _grouch_ today concerning that report he had to do. Learning to read so young spoiled him."

"Maybe so, but I rather had him read young than fumble around with it in school," he said. They pecked one another on the lips again and went towards the kitchen. "Was it at least a good reason to be grouchy?"

"He thinks the book is _childish_."

"…but he _is_ a child!"

"He's _ten_ , John," Clara sighed as she went into the oven and took out the food-laden plates she had kept warm. "Didn't you think you were all grown up when you were ten?"

"You've got a point there," he frowned. "Wynn was telling me about the story on the way to Earl's Court. Bet I'd make a mean Mr. Curry if I put my mind to it."

"If it's anything like your Captain Hook, you might scare the kids' rabbits," she snarked. She put the plates down on the table and Wynn came into the kitchen so they could eat and talk all about the computer show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us be thankful that we are out of the days of punch card computers and the horror that was spilling the box containing your thesis program all over the campus courtyard the night it was due, or when some asshole snuck a lace card into your program stack and then fucked up the computer by jamming it.
> 
> Another thing to note is that girls and computers really went hand-in-hand in the early days. There were many female keypunch operators/checkers over the decades (to the point it was most a women-dominated occupation, meaning these computers depended on their work (watch the Seven serial The Curse of Fenric for ladies doing decoding work during the war!)), and programmers got to boast names such as Ada Lovelace, Grace Hopper, Evelyn Boyd Granville, and Hedy Lamarr. Yes, Hedy Lamarr actually wrote what would end up being the base of the Wifi and Blutooth technologies.


	97. May 1959

Everything had been quiet and peaceful for far too long, John realized as he placed his pencil down. Strax hadn't invaded the garden in the name of Queen and Country in weeks, the kids hadn't seriously fought, Clara hadn't come home have an awful day, and he had a smooth time during the last visit to see his editor. Something was going to happen—he could _feel_ it.

Standing up, he began to pace around the room, scratching his head. He wasn't sure what was bothering him so much, since peace and tranquility could be a good thing. Trying to put it behind him, he forced his pacing to take him down to the kitchen, where he busied himself making some tea. It was a bit early, yeah, but that's what the cosy was invented for. He made tea and chose his favorite chair in the sitting room to rest in until it was time for the kids to return home from school. John was sleeping—hands folded on his middle, with his head back and mouth open in tiny snores—when the front door slammed shut, waking him with a start.

"Shut _up_!" Davey shouted.

"Why are you even sore about this?!" Wynn snapped back. "It's not the end of the world!"

"Ugh, you don't _get it_!"

As John stood up to investigate the matter, his son and daughter came into the sitting room, the former ready to cry while the latter appeared to be completely unbothered. "Alright, what's going on here?"

" _Dad_! Make her stop!" Davey insisted, pointing at Wynn.

"You can't stop me; it's _nature_ ," she teased smugly.

"Well, then you're _unnatural_!"

"Whoa, hold up; what's going on?" John wondered.

"We had to stand in line today at school from tallest to shortest, and I'm taller than Davey!" Wynn announced as she left the room.

"Yeah, and now everyone's making fun of me because you're such a giant!" he scowled. John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled heavily.

"Davey, you do know that girls grow up faster than boys, but that boys grow for longer, correct?" he replied. "There's a good chance you'll end up taller than Wynn in the end."

"Yeah, but that doesn't exactly help me _now_!" Davey said. He slumped down into the couch and allowed himself to land face-down into the cushions. "Just leave me here until I'm taller than Wynn, or I'm dead—whichever comes first."

"I'm starting to second-guess not sending you to that dramatic arts academy your mother found a few years back," John frowned. He turned around and returned to the kitchen, finding that Wynn was already helping herself to tea and biscuits. "Stop teasing your brother."

"Well what am I supposed to do? Amputate my shins?" she snarked.

"No, you're supposed to tell people to shut their gob, not join in on the teasing."

"He's gotta learn to stick up for himself, Dad," Wynn said through a mouthful of biscuit. "I can't go around clocking people for him forever."

"You shouldn't clock people, period," he scolded. "Your mam and I raised you better than that."

"Even if I'm not hitting someone, I still have to fight his battles; it's not right." She took another biscuit and refilled her teacup. "What happens if I don't go to the same university as him? I can't just bunk out of class to hop on the Tube and tell some trollop off that won't stop clinging to him."

"Sweetling, you're _nine_ —you don't need to be worrying about trollops bothering your brother. Where did you even _hear_ that word, anyhow?"

"It's Jackie's current word he's stuck on," she explained. "He just shouts it every so often 'cause he can't help it, so Ms. Blue tells him that he can shout things as long as he looks up what they mean in the dictionary."

"This the same boy that was shouting out the answers to an exam last term and now sits them in a separate room?" he asked.

"Yeah—we learn lots of words from him."

"…and I don't want to hear _any_ of them, got it?" John said. Wynn shrugged and drank her tea without another comment.

A couple minutes passed and the front door open and closed again. Clara walked into the kitchen and pecked her husband on the cheek before moving on to hug their daughter and sit down for her own cuppa.

"Where's Davey? He not feeling well?" she asked.

"He's sore because I'm taller than him," Wynn offered enthusiastically.

"Leave me to die!" Davey shouted from the sitting room. Their mother grumbled and rested her face in her hands in frustration.

"You two were doing so well and _this_ is the argument you get stuck in?" she groaned.

"It's not an argument, it's fact," Wynn said. "Ms. Blue had a measuring tape and everything."

"I don't care what Ms. Blue had; don't tease your brother about getting my height."

" _You mean I'm going to be short_ _ **forever**_ _?!_ " Davey panicked. He bolted into the kitchen, his brown eyes bulging wide in terror. "I don't want to be short forever!"

"David, you're not going to be _short_ by any means," Clara sighed. "You're already taller than me…"

"…by two inches, Mum! There are loads of boys taller than me in the class!"

"…but you're not done growing, not by a long shot," she finished. "Now stop your moaning and have some tea."

"I'm not hungry—I'll just go feed Flynn and start on my homework," he murmured, slinking off. A few minutes later and a thud could be heard from upstairs, sounding suspiciously like Davey crumpling on the floor.

"That's your English blood, sweetling," John explained to his daughter. "Hint for history class: the Wars of the Roses were just a bunch of drama queens that had the power to kill people."

"John, get up there and talk to him, _now_ ," Clara warned. "Tell him he won't be short forever."

"Already tried that, but he won't listen."

"Then _make him listen_ ; I don't care," she said. John stood brusquely and finished off his tea before leaving the room. Clara then turned to Wynn, who had an eyebrow cocked in apprehension. "Don't listen to your father; it's the artsy Scot in your veins that make you two so dramatic and don't you forget it."

Wynn shoved another biscuit in her mouth and kept her comments to herself—something told her that being over-dramatic was a Smith-Oswald sort of thing, not a Smith or Oswald sort of thing, and she wasn't going to be the one to bring it up.

* * *

Up on the second floor, John stared at the door to his son's room. Long gone were the days when a kitten sleeping hung on the wooden surface; now it was covered in photos of cars and owls, holiday photos and rabbits. Before he knew it, a girl could make her way on there, and it made him nervous down to his stomach.

"Son? Can I come in?"

"Go away," Davey replied.

"How about: I am exercising my right as your father to come into a room in _my house_ because one of the residents is being silly?" John retorted. He opened up the door and found Davey laying down on his side on the rug, using Randall as a pillow while watching Flynn lop about lazily. John closed the door and stood there with his arms folded, watching as his son let the rabbit chew on his hair.

"It's not fair," Davey whimpered. "It's always 'Wynn this' and 'Wynn that' and even though she's younger, she's always _better_."

"Her being taller for the time being has nothing to do with her being better than you," John assured. "Or is this about more than her being taller?"

"Auntie Sarah Jane was older than you by a lot, so you don't get it," the boy whined. "She's _always_ doing better than me at _everything_ , and it's getting really annoying."

"What, you feel like you're competing with her?" his father scoffed, sitting down at the end of the bed. "Just because you're the same level doesn't mean that the two of you are in a contest."

"That's a lot of what it feels like," Davey admitted. He gently pulled Flynn close and pet his soft brown fur. "My little sister is better at maths and football; she writes better and now is _taller_ than me. I don't know what to do."

"You know, that's still better than I had as a lad," John mentioned. "After Sarah Jane took that job as a foreign correspondent, it was nearly as if I had to literally compete with a _ghost_ , even though she wrote your gran and Uncle Jamie and me frequently."

"That's just because Granddad Smith was so cross it made him thick."

"Granddad Smith _was_ very cross, yeah, but don't you ever think he was thick-headed." He watched Davey lay on the floor, unmoving except to pet his rabbit. "He was cross because he was worried sick, and then suddenly it was my job to be the good, dependable son since his daughter wasn't around and probably never would be. He hefted all the responsibility onto my shoulders instead of trying to make up with your auntie, because if there's anything Sarah Jane inherited from our dad it's stubbornness."

"Okay, but what does that have to do with me and Wynn?" Davey muttered.

" _Everything_ , because although I had to live by a standard, you're free to do as you wish," John explained. "So what if your sister is better at football? At maths? Your mam and I aren't telling you to pass her, but to just do your best. You'll find what you're good at one day, I promise."

"It's still no fun having my _little_ sister be taller than me."

"Wait until secondary school—you'll have the last laugh by Year Eight or Nine, I can almost guarantee it." John nudged his son's leg with his foot and let out a chuckle. "I already know something you're much better at than she is by far."

"What's that?"

"Controlling your temper," he smirked. Davey couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Thanks, Dad," replied, letting go of Flynn so he could hop around the room some more. He pulled Randall out from under his head and hugged the toy owl. It was all in due time.


	98. September 1959

It was lunchtime at Coal Hill School, and the usual trio of Danny, Barbara, and Clara were sitting around the front desk in the former's room, chatting away. They kept one another from going insane from the laborious task of settling their students down into their academic modes, and preparing to keep them that way the entire school year long.

"So, how are the kids doing on their last year of primary?" Danny asked. He took a bite of his sandwich and shrugged casually. "Has it set in yet that they're going to be leaving after next term?"

"I'm not sure," Clara replied. "Wynn is always excited, no matter what seems to happen, but I'm thinking Davey might end up getting jittery sometime around Easter."

"Well, that's what they have the mentors program set in place for, right?" Barbara mentioned. "Maybe you can put in for one of the more gentle Year Nines to get assigned to him?"

"I _could_ , but that'd feel like cheating," Clara frowned. She paused for a moment, chewing on her thumbnail. "Do you think that'd be considered cheating?"

"Probably, yeah," Danny said. "I got to glance over the lists of who goes where the other day and it doesn't look like there are many questionable kids in the pool going to his school. Davey's chances are pretty good."

"…but there's still the chance of him getting some hooligan… oh no…" Clara rested her elbows on the desk and palmed her eyes. "My poor baby won't know what to do…"

"I thought Wynn was the younger one," Barbara wondered.

"He is, but when you're a parent, they're all your babies," Danny clarified. "Listen, I'm sorry—forget I even brought it up. It's just Orson's so ready to get to secondary school that I was wondering if you were facing a similar issue, since they're a level closer and all."

"No, I understand," Clara assured. "Just because my son isn't ready doesn't mean yours isn't."

"Shame I can't bump him up a level—I highly doubt he'd do well when not around kids his own age. Wynn would help since they're so close, but one friend isn't always enough."

"Agreed—and you might as well count Davey in with Wynn as the one, since he'll too busy wallowing to be of much use to be a second. I love my family, I really do, but they're all so dramatic when it comes to their woes."

"Sounds a bit like you fit right in," Barbara snarked. Danny nudged her with his foot to silently warn her to stop, but the damage was done.

"Aren't we a little cheeky?" the older woman retorted. "Maybe I've got a few stories to share with Chesterton over in the science department…"

"Don't you _dare_ ," Barbara gasped. Now in control of the conversation, Clara changed topics and brought the attention off of herself, having fun teasing her former student.

* * *

After school, Clara decided to go straight home instead of popping into a couple stores for some errands first. She wasn't feeling too well for some odd reason, so she figured some tea and putting her feet up before running around frantic would do her some good.

Upon arriving home Clara found Davey and Wynn already at the kitchen table, homework freshly spread out as they had their snack and let their rabbits hop around freely in the kitchen. Short barriers of boards and books kept the animals contained and facilitated the need for Clara to be careful as she stepped over the barricade so as to not knock it over.

"Where's your father?" she asked as she dodged the rabbits to check the kettle. It still had some hot water left, so she filled a mug and got herself a tea bag.

"He took tea up to his studio; says there's a lot he needs to catch up on since he had a block this morning," Davey explained. Flynn hopped up next to him and he put his foot on the rabbit's back, rubbing it gently.

"He insisted on making tea though," Wynn added. "It was done when we got home, so we figured we'd get a head-start on our work."

"That's nice of him, not to mention smart of you two," Clara said. She leaned against the countertop as she watched the kids. No, her _babies_ , as she had put it earlier that day, were the ones sitting at the table doing their homework. They were steadily growing, even now that they were taller than her, and were showing no signs of stopping. Had they been just a bit younger, they both would have needed coaxing when it came to doing their work, but now they were doing it all on their own.

"Mum, are you alright?" Davey wondered. Clara snapped out of her thoughts and noticed that both the kids were staring at her. She looked back and frowned, doing her best to not be upset.

"It's just that the two of you are growing up so fast, I can barely keep up," she said. "Now tell me: did they send over the kids that you're supposed to be paired with this year?"

"No; there's been a change of plan and they're coming tomorrow," Davey said. "Do you know who we're getting?"

"That I can't say—the committee in charge of that doesn't give up their secrets so easily."

"Oh, Mum, can I phone Orson and ask him over for tea tomorrow after school? I know he was telling me he wanted to know all about our mentors last time we saw him over at Gwen and Luke's," Wynn asked.

"As long as it's okay with Mr. Pink or Mrs. Miller, whoever's home," Clara replied. Her daughter then nearly tripped as she scuttled out of the room excitedly, heading over to the nook where the phone sat. She then turned towards her son, who was trying to concentrate on his textbook. "Is there anyone else at school who's excited by the prospect of the mentors program?"

"Oh, most people are," he said nonchalantly, not even looking up. "I wonder if I'm going to get someone nice or a football hooligan. It'd be awful if I got stuck with some football hooligan, and I _like_ football."

"Well, I'm happy to say that there are standards that the Year Nines have to pass before being considered for the mentors program," she assured. Granted, the qualifications were a bit lax, and sometimes it was the older kids that needed the responsibility more than the younger kids needing the guidance, but she wasn't going to tell him that. Wynn then came back in, a large grin on her face.

"Orson asked his gran and dad at the same time and they both say he can come," she reported. She picked up Dillon and rubbed her nose with his. "Do you think he'll be able to stay for dinner?"

"We'll see," her mother replied. Wynn put her rabbit down and sat in her chair to continue working again, unaware of the forlorn look Clara was giving her and her brother. Too grown-up, too quickly; it made her heart ache simply watching them.

Well, she _was_ capable of having another, and John would be so enthused by the idea that she could get pregnant tonight if she wanted, but she reached her limit and there was no taking it back. Having another baby would only make things worse, since it would just mean that _John_ would be the one who'd need to give up their job while another little one grew to school age, and then they'd be revisiting this scene in another ten or eleven years. She had to face it, but that didn't mean she was enjoying feeling as though her children's lives were zooming past her.

* * *

It was the following day and Clara was nervous. She kept on thinking about her children and who they could have possibly been matched up with. By the end of the day it was all she had not to rush herself home, eager to hear what the kids had to say about their new school-mandated friends. She entered the house and made her way to the sitting room, only to see that Wynn was crouched next to the couch, poking Dave in the shoulder as he laid on the cushions in his typical face-down, melodramatic, manner.

' _Shit_ ,' she thought. Thinking quickly, Clara cleared her throat and stepped into the room. "That bad, huh?"

"Not really, but Davey's being a spoil-sport, as _usual_ ," Wynn said. Davey said something, but his voice was muffled by fabric.

"So? Who'd you get?" she inquired. Davey muttered something into the couch cushion, while Wynn's face lit up.

"I've got a girl named Dorothy, and she's really good at maths like me!" she replied, perking up. "She likes science too, and wants to be a chemist!"

"Dorothy…? Hmm…" Clara had to reach back into her mind to think if she had any students with that name. "What's her surname?"

"McShane." A switched flicked on, alerting the mother to what was imminent danger.

"…Ace," Clara groaned. "You got Ace McShane."

"Yeah! She calls herself that because her dad was a flying ace! Do you have her as a student?" Wynn wondered.

"No, but all the teachers know her; she's a bad influence."

"I think she's rather fun, and she gets along great with Susan!"

Clara raised an eyebrow, curious. "Okay, I give up: who's Susan?"

" _My_ mentor," Davey whined, moving his face away from the cushion. "The headmistress said that we would all get the same gender, but she _lied_."

"It's not her fault that the numbers were uneven!" Wynn commented. She sounded bored, as if she had been combating this complaint of her brother's since the moment they were assigned their mentors.

"There are a couple of Susans, so which one?" their mother asked.

"Foreman; she lives with her granddad and seems really nice, like she's really patient and stuff," Wynn explained.

"Oh, I know her—she's much more respectable a person to have than _Ace_ ," Clara said. John then came into the room, a half-eaten apple wedged between his teeth and the tea tray in-hand. "I am definitely going to have to put in with the committee to have your mentor switched, Wynn."

"Who's your mentor, sweetling?" John asked once the tray was down and the apple in his hand. He took a hefty bite as he waited for the reply.

"Her name is Ace and she's a disruptive influence," Clara said sourly. "I don't even know _how_ she got accepted into the program, but I would have thought that her agenda of causing all of us teachers hell would be enough to bar her."

"Is it that she dislikes rules or does she truly mean to cause you all grief?" he asked through his apple.

"It's difficult to say—she's incredibly bright, but the _utter disregard_ she has for school faculty makes me really wonder," she groused. "It's not like we make rules up just to torture students."

"Are you sure about that, Mum?" Wynn smirked. Clara was about to retort when the front door opened and Orson rushed into the house.

"Hi Mrs. Smith, hi Mr. Smith," he said quickly before turning towards his friends. "Did you get your mentors yet?! How are they? What are they like?"

"They're really neat!" Wynn grinned. She pulled Davey off the couch and pulled both him and Orson out of the room. "We're gonna have tea in the kitchen!"

"That boy needs to learn how to _knock_ ," Clara muttered.

"He normally does; he's just excited, is all," John chuckled. He leaned down and pecked his wife on the cheek. "You told me that Danny said he was, so I think we can let manners slide for the moment."

She poured herself some tea from the tray and slumped down, resting the cup and saucer on her hips instead of her lap. "That girl blew up a toilet last term."

"Who?" her husband asked, slightly lost.

"Ace—she was mixing some chemicals in one of the bathrooms and a toilet exploded when she dumped her experiment so as to not get caught," she clarified. "Is that who we really want in charge of our daughter?"

"Ah, you never know," John said. "She could be one of those 'do as I say and not as I do' sort of people. It could lead to something brilliant."

Clara took a careful sip of tea and pouted. "These kids are going to be the death of me."

"Watch it—that should be my line," her husband teased before leaving the room, allowing her to sulk in private.


	99. April 1960

Clara wasn't sure what was going on, other than that she was rather irritated.

She had woken up that Monday to start what was sure to be a silly and romantic week. That Saturday was her anniversary—her _twentieth_ wedding anniversary—and her husband was bound to be up to something. Their tenth had involved a nice dinner and dancing, and their fifteenth had been surrounded by some fundraisers that were going on at the kids' school, making it just enough to drop them off at Sarah Jane's for the night so they could have twenty-four hours alone. Now the children were old enough to leave alone for a few hours, or they could be dropped off with more people than just their elderly aunt. Heck, they could even be of actual _use_ to Gwen now that she had a baby to care for, and having such skills had the potential to be handy for years to come.

Except when she tried to plan something, everyone seemed to back out on her, giving this reason or that as to why they couldn't keep Davey and Wynn for an extended period of time. They would all ask when the party was supposed to be, wondering if it was late in order to spend their actual anniversary in peace and quiet, making Clara scratch her head in wonder.

"John, were you planning a party at all?" she would ask.

"No—I don't really want a party," he'd reply. The conversation would have differing bits in the middle, but it would always end by him bringing her in close and folding around her in a hug. "We'll see how we feel after the sixteenth, yeah? No one can want to blame us for wanting a quiet night in with the bairns."

"I guess," she'd reply, and then the topic would be put to rest. John not wanting to make a fuss wasn't something new or odd, so Clara would sort of brush it off and move onto something else, such as how his newest book was coming along or what they should have for dinner. It made her a bit disappointed that she wasn't going to be doing anything too special for her anniversary, one that was a genuine milestone, despite the fact she didn't know how many more they were going to celebrate together. Number twenty-five they'd do something for certain though, and she knew it. Should she begin putting away for it now? She'd have to talk to John about it, figure out what they'd want to do together.

It was definitely irritating being married to a man nearly thirty-years her senior with a self-conscious streak a mile long, but nights laying in one another's arms and days spent with their children were certainly reward enough.

* * *

"Tell me, Clara, are you excited for tomorrow?" Danny asked. It was a Friday at lunchtime and they were eating in Barbara's classroom. The younger woman kicked him in the shin and smiled as she bit into her sandwich.

"Sounds like someone's jealous that he doesn't have a someone to celebrate a wedding anniversary with," Barbara said. Clara's mouth drew into a straight line, unamused.

"Of course I'm _excited_ ," she replied. "I'm going to make something special for dinner tomorrow, I think. Davey and Wynn already promised to make breakfast, so we've got at least _that_ under control. Something tells me the evening involves going out for a nice dinner, like our tenth, but John just won't tell me because he thinks it's some sort of surprise."

"Men like to think they're the masters of surprise," Barbara said. "You know Ian? He sent me a card during the school Valentine's party thinking he was clever making it look like a student did it… as if I can't tell his hand from a teenager's."

"Ian doesn't count because he's too smitten to be anything _but_ obvious," Clara shrugged. She glanced at her friends, who were giving each other odd looks, and frowned. "What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing," Danny lied. He was always bad at lying, which was probably why he emphasized telling the truth so much. "I hope you and John have a lovely weekend."

"I'm sure we'll do our best," she said. The conversation topic changed, but it still stayed stuck in the back of her mind through the remainder of the school day. Even trying to weasel something out of Danny and Barbara after the final bell didn't solve the problem, for they remained shifty-eyed and tight-lipped. Clara made the walk back to Grynden puzzling over her coworkers' odd behavior, only for her children to intercept her right in front of the Trask-Flint residence. They physically turned her around and began pushing her away from their house, which was the oddest thing yet.

"Mum, hey, how about we take a walk?" Wynn asked, her voice cracking in nervousness.

"No, I just really want to relax," Clara replied. "It's the weekend and it's your father's turn to cook, so I'm going to take advantage of it."

"I really, really do think a walk would be nice," Davey said. "We can see how our favorite park in the tree is coming—I mean—our favorite tree in the park is coming along. It's in bloom right now, yeah?"

"David, we don't have a favorite tree in the park," Clara frowned. She turned around and faced the kids. "What has gotten into the two of you?"

The tweens both began sputtering out two separate lies, neither of which their mother listened to. She pushed her way past them and went into the house and put down her bag. She took off her shoes and pressed further on, despite protests.

Turning the corner, Clara finally saw what it was the kids were trying to hide, looking around the sitting room with her brow furrowed in confusion. There, covering the couch and chairs and coffee table, were open bags of luggage, some seemed as if they were only half-packed, that she had never seen before. The clothes were hers and her husband's, but the luggage was not.

"Kids…? What's going on?" she wondered. Clara turned and saw her children standing in the hall, both uncharacteristically sheepish.

"That's why Dad wanted us to keep you out of the house," Wynn admitted. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

" _What_ was supposed to be a surprise?" Clara asked. It was then that John came down the stairs with a couple bundled pairs of socks and some dress shirts over his arm, blanching when he saw his wife standing in the sitting room doorway. His eyes grew wide and his brows rose, telling her that he was panic-thinking. "John, what's all this?"

"I thought the kids needed help getting some things for Dillion and Flynn…" he started.

"…and considering that it's been proven they can carry home a couple bags of hay and some pellets, I hardly doubt they need my help," she finished. "Whose luggage is that in the sitting room, filled with our things?"

John exhaled heavily and finished descending the stairs. "It's ours; brand new," he said, taking her hand. He led her into the sitting room, the children a couple steps behind, where he discarded the socks and shirts in a suitcase and picked up a folder from underneath one of the unzipped lids. "I went to go pick the set up this morning, but there had been a hiccup in the store's ordering system and it was all packed away in the Christmas storage."

"But we don't _need_ new luggage," Clara stated. John passed her the folder and she opened it—sitting on the top of a pile of papers were two train tickets, just barely obscuring a couple brochures and some more tickets for trains, ferries, and even a film festival. "When did you get these?"

"Also today—almost didn't because the travel agent was nearly about to head to lunch by the time I got there. How about it, Clara? Go on a little adventure, just you and me?"

"Oh John, you really are impossible," Clara laughed. He picked her up and kissed her, only to come to a crash on the couch almost immediately.

"You better figure out what you're going to wear, because we're leaving tonight. I've waited far too long for this," he grinned.

"Didn't you say you got this all earlier in the day? I didn't think you were _that_ impatient."

"No; we're leaving for that _honeymoon_ we never took." John brushed back some hair from her wide, startled face and flashed his teeth. "If I remember correctly: by the time we would have saved up enough, a couple men with guns would have been in our way."

"Now that's an understatement," she choked, half in tears. Wynn reached out to hug her mother, but Davey held her arm to keep her back.

"Shh… don't!"

"But Davey, Mum's crying, and it's so _weird_ when she's crying…"

"Mum's crying happy tears, honey. It's okay," Clara assured. She then turned back to her husband, trying to calm down. "Where are we headed?"

"The south of France, for a month," John said. "If we don't go now, we'll never go at all."

"…and the kids?"

"Your dad's going to phone once he gets to the station, which shouldn't be too long now—it was partly his idea."

"…but my job… and how can we afford…?"

"I phoned up Mr. Coburn a long time ago, getting you the time off without you knowing, and Danny's been helping keep it secret," he explained. "As far as _affording it_ is concerned, I've been saving up since our twelfth, in a separate account, little by little. It got a bit easier once you started working, let me tell you." He pressed their foreheads together, dropping his voice down low. "You deserve to see wonders, Clara, and I'll make sure you get them, even if it is just some French ones."

"…and here I was thinking that you were waiting to do something for our twenty-fifth," she said, barely able to form the words with her mind racing to figure out the trip's logistics.

"What's left will definitely get rolled over into that," John replied. "If you want a party for our silver anniversary, then I'll make sure you get it. Eight more years and I'm on borrowed time, if we go by the record Uncle Jamie set, and we're going to make do with what we can, while we have it."

Now _that_ sent Clara over the edge. She buried her face in his chest, swearing at him for being so dense to wait so long to tell her his plan. They sat there together, with him rubbing her back and trying to settle her back to normal, while Davey made tea and Wynn found some fresh handkerchiefs for her parents to use. By the time Clara had a cuppa in her and had finally dried her eyes, the phone rang—her dad was at the station waiting to be picked up.

After a quick pop over to the station by John, during which Clara continued packing and sorting through their clothes, Dave walked in through the front door and gave his daughter the most heartfelt hug he could muster. It was his pleasure to help out, spending a rare, entire month with his grandkids while his daughter and son-in-law took their much-needed holiday alone. While the two visited (with Clara going over the kids' schedules with a fine-toothed comb so nothing fell through), Wynn sneakily went into the kitchen and began to make dinner, with Davey eventually coming in to help towards the end. The family ate Spam-and-cheese noodles that night, finishing off well in-time for good-byes to be said and a couple photos to get snapped before the taxi came to take the night's travelers to the station.

A few train rides and a ferry hop later and John and Clara Smith found themselves standing hand-in-hand as they stared out at the Mediterranean coastline. It made Grynden Street feel like a place that was millions of miles away, which meant Wissforn felt even further. Walking along the white sandy beach, they slowly began their long-ignored honeymoon with a quiet stroll as the sun began to set.


	100. 29 September 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading! Just as a little bit of trivia: I originally posted this the day of the chapter title, though for me ff.net shows it as the day before because time zones.

Johnnie MacLaren cricked his neck as he got off the bus, bracing himself for another long day at work. Normally being a primary school teacher wasn't a bad thing, but with the first month back from summer holiday the kids were still restless and not yet fully tamed into their regular schooling routine. It was only his first year teaching to boot, which had made things all the more interesting.

" _Once you get that first year under your belt, it's smooth sailing_ ," his granddad had once told him, over half a year ago when he was ready to sit exams. Granddad didn't know, however, that two months later Johnnie would take on a position at a tiny school in the suburbs, in one of the oldest and most decrepit buildings in the town; where he'd get an office, yeah, but when cleaning it out he ended up finding everything from Blitz evacuation records to seventy-year-old condoms and silk knickers.

He donated the papers to the local historical society and burned the condoms and knickers (along with the suspiciously-stained couch that had been covering up their hidey-hole), whining the entire time he needed protective clothing just to go to work. Johnnie's room, according to the headmaster, had been used infrequently since the 1950's, never a teacher staying in there long. The longest-tenured instructor was a woman, Smith, who even jammed her and her husband into the office for over a year while waiting for housing during the Second World War. That explained the undergarments, at least, but that only made Johnnie's coworkers claims that the room was haunted more justified.

It had been haunted since the early 70's, he was told, by the ghost of Mrs. Smith's husband. An angry, surly man, with softness for few and eyes for only his wife, he was reportedly a school fixture that was a mixture of Peeves the Poltergeist and the Bloody Baron (at least, that was how Anderson put it). Odd hissing in the pipes? Mr. Smith. Misplaced books and pens and notebook computers? Mr. Smith. Projector did not work? Mr. Smith. A few years, Johnnie thought, and he'd have enough experience under his belt to go out and work in a more modern facility, not haunted by disgruntled riveters likely gone to an early grave thanks to too much liquor and tobacco and not enough rest and fresh air.

"Hey there Mr. MacLaren," the school secretary said cheerily as he walked in the office. She was young and flirty, as some secretaries were wont to be, and made eyes at him as he walked over to the pigeonholes where the mail was kept.

"Oh, hi Miss Campbell," Johnnie nodded, sorting through his mail. He tried to politely not look at her, an action that made him vow to never pursue a girl like she did him. "I'm expecting a parcel from a cousin abroad; has it arrived yet?"

"Something did come for you, yeah, but your grandparents came and took it," Miss Campbell replied. "They're upstairs in your classroom."

Johnnie's attention was caught and he spun around, looking the secretary in the face. "My grandparents? Here?"

"Yeah, your granddad, the one that's been coming over, along with a lady I assume is your granny since they were walking arm-in-arm. Old people are so cute like that."

"Thank you, Miss Campbell. See you later," Johnnie said. He tried not to rush out of the office, and completely failed when he began to bound up the stairs two steps at a time. Sure enough, sitting at his desk was his granddad, looking over the classroom in a wistful haze.

"Y'know, this was my classroom one year," the old man chuckled. "I still remember tossing one of those giant paperclips in your gran's hair from all the way across the room."

"Granddad, where's the parcel from Vicky?" Johnnie frowned. "She sent me some Australian liquorice for my class's history lesson next week and I need to make sure none of the kids see it."

"It's in your office, with a visitor," Granddad replied. Johnnie poked his head into his office and blinked in surprise—there, holding his parcel on her lap, was his aunt. Well, more like his granddad's honorary aunt, but the woman sitting on the couch was an aunt to them all the same, blood-relation or not. They mostly communicated through Christmas cards and the odd phone call, though that did not make her any less an aunt to him

"Aunt Clara…?" he marveled. "I didn't know you were in town. How are you?"

"Oh, doing well enough," she smiled. She was always smiling, his Aunt Clara was, in almost every recollection he had of her. Holding up the box, she shook it slightly. "Now what did my great-granddaughter bother to send you while she's supposed to be working hard on her studies?"

"A treat, for the students," he replied. Johnnie sat down next to her and held her hand. "How long has it been?"

"You were taller than me, but only just, that was for sure," Clara said. She put the parcel down on the couch and wrapped her arm around his, leaning on him. "It's good to see you again, and it's good of Donny to take me around to all the old haunts while I'm visiting."

"That's right… you lived around here once, didn't you?" he asked. Johnnie looked up when he saw his granddad come into view, leaning up against the doorway.

"Flat's torn down, so really this is one of the few places we've got left," Donny said. He turned towards Clara and smirked. "So, how is it? Just like the old days?"

"Not quite, but after seventy years, few things truly stay the same," Clara smirked. Johnnie had to double-take to contain his surprise.

"Aunt Clara, I didn't know you went to school here too," he said. "I was always told you grew up in Blackpool."

"…and I _did_ grow up in Blackpool, but I had to meet my husband somehow," she chuckled. "He'd be tickled to know his namesake ended up in my old office."

Johnnie could barely believe his ears. " _Your_ old office?" he asked. "You mean… _you're_ the Smith that taught here during the war? I asked Wynn and she said you taught at a different school…"

"Wynn is what I think you kids call a ' _troll'_ these days," Clara laughed. "Besides, it's more fun to tell you myself… though I wish they hadn't binned the couch…"

Inhaling deeply, Johnnie's eyes went wide as he let out a nervous little laugh. "Oh God… that was _your_ couch…?"

"You're the one that got rid of it? Oh you silly boy." She hit his arm, though it felt no lighter than a tap. "That couch held so many stories, and held up amazingly well. It was still a good couch, wasn't it? Maybe in need of a wash, but not much else."

"Uhh…" Johnnie looked at his aunt and felt the heat rise to his face. "There was no amount of washing that could save that couch."

"Poppycock—a wash and it could have been good as new."

"No Aunt Clara… it wouldn't have." He could see the shit-eating grin on his granddad's face out of the corner of his eye and scowled. "So the very… _active_ and oddly-matched Smiths that lived here were the two of you?"

"Oooh, we're legend, what fun!" Clara squeaked happily. "What do they say?"

"That Uncle John haunts the school for some sort of revenge, except now I know it's _not_ Uncle John because that's impossible."

"Why's that?"

"It's been haunted since the 70's and considering he almost made it to the 90's…"

"Ah, I see," Clara nodded. Her perpetual smile turned sad and she exhaled heavily. "It wouldn't surprise me if he kicked the old ghost out—probably upset by someone saying something lewd about me while passing down that silly legend. He always was protective…"

"No one told me about the lewd parts. I came to that conclusion on my own." Johnnie cringed slightly as Clara looked at him in surprise. "The couch stains were kind of a clue… as well as the knickers and, erm, condoms in the wall."

"You have my knickers?" she asked, barely able to contain her laughter.

"No!" he replied quickly. "I mean, I burned them with the couch. Christ, Aunt Clara, what was _wrong_ with the two of you? I thought everyone back then was, you know, not comfortable about that stuff."

"Not the two of them. Uncle John, if I recall, got off on it in public," Donny laughed. "Remember when you took David, Wynn, and me to see Trafalgar Square back in '55? That cart vendor recognized me on a class trip a couple years later."

"Johnnie, if I recall those were some of my best knickers." Clara raised her eyebrows and chuckled at his discomfort. "Relax—it's fine. I'm just surprised it all made it untouched. Seventy years is a long time, after all. Our hidey-hole survived, the lock my husband stole from the gate is still on the door, I can see they haven't bothered to fix the floor in the meantime, and if I close my eyes I can smell the last of the rosemary."

"…so _that's_ what that smell is," Johnnie said. "I was wondering what it was, but I couldn't place it."

"John believed it warded off nightmares, and there were more than a few former gardens he was able to pluck it from," she explained. "He was so Victorian in that sense—you would have laughed."

"Careful; you might make some of the health fads going around these days seem tame," Donny smirked. He glanced over at his grandson, who seemed to be lost in thought. "What's the matter?"

"Um, Aunt Clara?" Johnnie muttered. "How long are you staying?"

"Through the week," she replied, blinking in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"How would you like to be a guest speaker for a bunch of Primary Fives before you head back to Wynn and Orson's?" he asked quietly. "I think there's a few tales you can spin that would catch their attention; even just the times that you loved best would work. Your mind's still sharp enough for a couple dozen pudding brains that are an endless font of questions, yeah?"

"Of course," she sighed, taking his hand in hers and patting it gently. "I'd be _honored_."


End file.
